i don't know where this bruise came from,
i say, pointing to my heart.
i don't know where the rest came from either, the ones on my knees, fingertips, marred near the skin of my throat, marks of constant conflagration.
i don't know when it became so difficult. the swallowing. the agitation.
all i know is i am a corse of rage and rage and rage. i step into the shallow water of a creek, watch it kiss my toes with more gentleness than i ever provide myself, with more clemency than i could ever possess, watch it glean and coruscate with colours of bisques and squashes. i make eye contact with my shaky reflection. i can't bear to look at myself, yet i can't look away.
i am a third wheel in my own body.
i long to be free of it.
i cry and scratch and scream.
the numbers drop on the scale.
my hair falls out in wisps as i hum a tune my mother sang when she fed me grapes when i was a child, and i hum a tune the radio played when she screamed over the dining table. i hum a tune, the pitch that of my stomach panging, and let my fingers wrap loosely around my black coffee.
i sit at a counter and reach out blindly. is it a fork or a rifle? a ladle or a sacrifice? reality tilts on its axis. no, i am not dizzy. no, i am not sick. i am transcending.
i am moody, but at my zenith. my neighbour is concerned. i have only talked to her five times this year, yet, she questions. all i wonder is does it show? does she know i am an artist, a sculptor, a deity? x-rays of my body show an urge to rot, peach fuzz, the urge to perfect. i am a flightless bird, i melt like the enamel coating my teeth. does she know that i want so bad for it to be pretty, but this pallid skin and hollow ache makes me feel like shedded skin? does she know i memorise calories quicker than birthdays, that i do not know which is heavier, being full or empty?
can she hear it? the gurgling cacaphony? i must know. can she hear the madness burbling beneath pale laminae?
a laugh rips itself out of my throat, raw only as a wound self-inflicted. limbo really is only fun, till the bar isn't a metaphor.
