my body beneath blankets, lying down on my back so that my breasts roll around to my sides. placing my hand on my breastbone, it is level and i feel my breath, but that is inside. there are bony hips and ribs, ready for dismantling. in the mornings, i have to hold my stomach to keep the fear from spilling out.
today my lips are cracked and i do nothing to repair them. we rely too heavily on balms and ointments, rubbing them into our skin like it’s a religion. instead i will rip off the dead skin until it is bloody and the blood fills up my bottom lip. dabbing at it with my tongue it tastes that strange metallic way that all blood tastes, and in fact i kind of like it. this is one of the small ways that you can distract yourself.
i think about the moon too often. i love how the cool light fills up my bedroom. its craters like lifelines, imprints in the skin. the cliche of it. i have important moon memories, i have moon stories to tell. every poem has a moon, even if it doesn’t explicitly say so. it hangs over the poem, and the poem turns silver.
i need a skin much thicker than this one, one that is resilient, less willing to compromise, possibly waterproof. my own skin is weak, sagging. i poke and prod at it, pulling at it hard between my thumb and fingers. after a while i realise that the skin i have is mine and can’t be altered. i try to smooth over the creases i have made. everything is a threat, but giving up is a luxury.