I wear gloves because I like to. The printed fishnet resting against my skin is a comfort, like a second flesh. I feel as if I could slip away into them, become the person they are. The soft material is practically molded against my skin. The criss crossed cotton covers the criss crossed scars that mark the skin beneath.
Because behind my fashion statement is another skin. This skin is marred with pale scars and angry red lines that are mad at the world. I don't like showing anyone this skin because it makes them sad. It makes them feel as if I need help. And I don't because I have my second skin.
My gloves hide everything that I don't want the world to see, which is a lot. They become my mask. They tell people a lot of things. They make statements. Loud statements. I don't have to say a word. People see my gloves and are scared. Because a normal person doesn't wear these gloves. I like my gloves because they cover up everything I'm not and everything I shouldn't be. I don't take them off too often because I don't like my other skin. The ugly color and texture sickens me. I can't help but wear the gloves, wear the mask.
I hate who I am without them. The familiar black pattern meshes together with the scars, making them unnoticeable. No one can see my scars. No one goes looking, but even if they were they would be unsuccessful.
I never take off my gloves. I never had to. I sleep alone and I never give people reason to doubt. My gloves remain plastered to me until I'm all alone and ready to peel away the mask. No one has seen beneath the gloves. I feel kind of disgusted looking at them, but pushing that down has become routine to me. I peel away the mask and mark up the original skin I've been given. I love my gloves because when it's all over, I can just put them on and pretend the other stuff never existed. My gloves are my life. I can't live without them. They're a necessity.
I don't take off my gloves for anyone. The scars run too deep for someone to see them. I don't want people to see my scars.
My gloves were my life. I used to think I needed them to survive.
Scars fade. People heal. And my gloves became more of an accessory than a necessity.
