r (affectsmynerves) wrote,

the self i keep insisting died was never all that real. a two month fever dream in the uncertain summer interstice between high school and college, whipped into a volcanic shape with the promise of newness, new skin, smooth and red, not yet marked with a fingerprint (or a plum-sized hickey, or the acne i tried to burn from my body with garlic like it was unholy). i made her up for nyu. a college student barbie. she had a new body and she had new dreams. probably a new laugh. new burbling feelings. she got played with a couple times and then put back in her box. now here i am. i liked her, but she wasn't a Me. she wasn't sustainable. i've never been a me that didn't cause me pain.

i was not made of mud and cannot dream of returning to dust.

when i read something i like now, i feel myself rupturing, all the parts of me leaking dams. my heartbeat skidding into home. this dull ache circling my skull. there's a lot of movement. a lot of feelings shifting around. i'm trying to build something new, not from mud, not from dust. what from? i don't know. i don't know. my arduino kit. all my words will be muffled like my malfunctioning piezo element. i love always the scene of cameron peeling apart the skin of her forearm like the bloodless unzipping of a dress, and all the wires are there, and each has a designated function defined by what it touches. define me by what i touch. i've been chasing a real solidity for twenty-one years and i haven't caught all the way up to it yet.
Tags: a thing about body problems, a thing about brain problems, can you grab my metal arm for me, my intense fomo blogging, personal report card, progress wrt healing, the witching hour is for witches
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