#idk i'm thinking about submitting for a chapbook contest

[earthytzipi]

the mask

it would almost be funny, if it wasn’t so pathetic.

you have to reclaim your body inch by inch, centimeter by centimeter, the needle buzzing its way into your ears and never fully leaving. not really. you end up itching for more. as though, somehow, seeing your skin slowly replaced with colors and designs makes up for the years of blankness.

blankness. just another word for emptiness. just another word for being a snarl in the seamless fabric of the world, something that the weaver intends to root out, snap, and reattach invisible. 

so you put neon signs on yourself. so you show the world precisely who you are, etched several layers deep, colorful roots replacing the beige warp. and then you wake up and you’re not a teenager anymore and you realize you don’t actually know who that is. living has been a protest for so long you don’t recognize your own face.

it would almost be funny, if it wasn’t so pathetic.

staring at yourself in the mirror is almost too painful, even without the dizzying effect of someone else’s pupils meeting your own. the ants are back, crawling up and down your spine, carbonating your stomach, and you only know one way to calm them down, so you reach for it. it burns on its way down your throat, but after, it’s just blissful numbness.

you know it’s not good for you, but standing in the kitchen at midnight, feet cold on the tile floor, you can’t bring yourself to care. you just want to sleep. if you could just sleep, maybe that person in the mirror would go away and you would know your own face.

you reach for it again. it can’t get any worse. you’ve already gone there after you promised yourself you wouldn’t. you can’t even bring yourself to name this thing. it doesn’t matter. you’re already spiraling out into easy black. the bed is suddenly comfortable.

it would almost be funny, if it wasn’t so pathetic.

when graduation approaches, you shave your head because your hair hurts. you immediately regret it. since when were impulsive decisions allowed to be ones that other people could see? you retreat to the couch and the computer and the everything that is and you pretend that that everything is fine. about an hour before you realize tears are streaming down your face.

the paint is cracking again. you panic.

it would almost be funny, if it wasn’t so pathetic.

the person you’ve created would never have lasted forever. the weaver’s scissors approach.