Unzip my thick skin.
How do we take up space? Title me. Perceive me. Tell me who I’m supposed to be.
I’ve always enjoyed spending time and moving through my days alone, but when I have myself I never truly feel alone. Some say that taking yourself on dates is important. But today I am aware of the space around me; I'm parting the air like Moses as I walk through Fulton Station. I am unsure if this feeling is extreme dissociation or if I am finally coming to. I am having one of those moments when you have to brush the hairs that stand up on your arm to double-check that you are real.
I pushed through the turnstiles and saw a middle-aged woman leaning on the rail eating my favorite pretzel from Auntie Annes. My mom and I would always share one when we went to the mall when I was a kid. I watched the woman stand there and eat in peace. I envy her. I haven't had one in years, the white chunks of salt alway make me panic. A lot of the things I used to love as a kid scare me now.
Today a man grabbed my shoulders and pushed me out of his way. I don't know why, but for some reason, it made me feel loved. Thats kinda fucked up.
I recently read Diary of an Oxygen Thief. That book was honestly so evil; it hit every button I have. The author's whole ploy was that he (?) was anonymous; nothing can be traced back to you, you have total freedom to be or say whatever you please. Being anonymous, remaining unperceived, or manipulating your display setting keeps you safe.
“...maybe I was just afraid they’d see right through me” (anonymous).
There are very few people who are allowed to see her bare; the raw truth, the first draft, the unpolished. If you unzip the skin, the layers of toughness built over the years, you will find something that she thinks is terrifying. Others may find it beautiful, but that's TBD. You’ll discover all the unspeakable things and the secrets that she swore would be taken to the grave. Zip that skin back up.
My boyfriend told me I would make a perfect candidate for heroine. That was crazy. His reasoning was: I am extremely depressed, bipolar, and I hate existing in my skin. That feels slightly unfair.
I know I would love it.
He crashes and she burns – he breaks her and she sits there trying to match the pieces back together like the puzzle she is – her back hurts as she hunches over with the old nail glue trying to fix herself. The glue is dried and almost out. She’s forced to squeeze the tube until her fingers are white and her hands are shaking. The smallest drop comes out; she can make do with that. Her mom taught her that you can fix almost anything with a little nail glue (hopefully this includes her). But you must remember to put the cap back on so it isn't too physically demanding. She always forgets to do that.
He stole the last piece when she was too focused on her shaky hands trying to line up the jagged edges. He’ll sit there and watch her tear apart her room looking for it, and then sit there to keep her company as she cleans it up.
He destroys and she cleans.
Recently, I have learned that I might actually enjoy having company. Humans are created to fit perfectly into one another. Whether it's holding hands or fucking, it makes sense. And even though it's terrifying to drop the veil, to stop manipulating the way you are perceived, and to let someone unzip your skin, it’s nice to feel the warmth of someone climbing in with you.
Can we still lay in your sleeping bag tonight though?
Empty yet full of weight, kinda like the dime bag on my dresser, or maybe my sleeping bag – I try really hard to ignore both of them. My sleeping bag is frequently empty, I tend to climb out and climb into yours when you let me.
Shoving the vix vapor inhaler so far up my nose because I promised myself I wouldn't do coke anymore. God forbid I want to be happy.
The other day I was too high and I accidentally lit my lucky cigarette from the wrong end. The pack wasn’t even empty. I fear I just undid every wish I've ever made on a lucky cigarette. Fuck.
May 2025
