021/2024
I am a 24 year old person, I will be 25 next year. I rotate between the same 4 outfits because I started a new job where I have to dress differently. I don’t know what to wear. I only have one bra. Well I have more than 1. I only wear one bra, it is in bad shape. The straps fall off my shoulders. But not as much as my other bra. I dont know where to buy a bra or what kind to buy. I dont want to buy one. But I am 24. I have a job where I have to wear the same 4 outfits. I dont know what to wear. Everything looks weird. Legs hairy, ankles thick in my calf length skirt. The face of my upper arms, tattooed horseshoe and suffocating sparrows pressed against glass of costumey white button down. Button up? Pants tight around my crotch and loose around my waist. Belt for decoration. Can’t bend over. Shoes that click too loud, hurt, or toodirty white sneaker, hurts too. I hope no one looks at me but they do sometimes. Fixing my bra straps. They know I don’t know what to wear
020/2024
You can hear the posture of the public middle school girls choir through the unison of the octave and the lagging of the percussion, you can hear the gaped mouth, smooth brow, and cocked neck of the bored girls whom god shed his light on, from sea to shining sea for the hundredth time, the crossed arms and toed converse and the Bobby pinned bangs. Each voice believes she is most deserving of the solo, and not Laura, who is coming up in 5 measures, and each voice believes she has the best voice because she sang Kelly Clarksons Breakaway for the talent show and Mrs. Fraley the music teacher said it was really good. The crowded melody is one huge annoying 12 year old through the CHOIRRECITALJAN10 CD
019/2024
I know the people on the billboards. The billboard lawyers: sometimes coming in pairs of smiling earnest cheeks or appearing solitary and serious about being Injured On the Job? in New Jersey- and how they can help! I see them standing in a small-ish corporate conference room in front of a green backdrop that a by-the-hour photographer slowly set up, chatting loudly in Long Island boisterous male 40-something voices. They’re funny and their smiles are real. The solitary man a few miles ahead has won BILLIONS and can get you the money deserve, too. He stands cross-armed and looks completely assured, but a little awkward because he doesn't like to be photographed. A girl hanging onto a lamppost banner on North Ave striking a hand-on-hip pose, a name like “Aliyah” and an “age 12” next to it: probably at least 15 now based on the sun bleached white-stripes through her now sepia print. I imagine Aliyah driving passed it in the passenger seat of her moms grey Taurus and remembering the child-model scouts that came to her school cafeteria asking for kids to be part of a campaign that would “Help Baltimore Schools”. She remembers feeling awkward as they handed her props- a shiny pink backpack and Nikes that weren’t hers. She wonders if she helped, she wishes she got to keep the shoes. A woman on 395 trying very hard to make her name into something catchy- something that makes you want to go to a car dealership that you missed the exit for 3 exits ago. She seems nice but she has the haircut of a woman with an annoying laugh. I wonder if she is there a lot or works from home sometimes
017/2024
It’s late August and it’s 69 degrees, it’s almost my birthday, it’s devastating, a cool breeze on the same count as a breath in is a heart breaking and horrifying reminder of my stagnance. When I grew up 6 years ago I started living year-to year, 2 years ago I grew up again and started living month-to-month, 3 months ago I started living week-to-week, and now I live day-to-day. How exciting you say! How is this stagnant, you say! You are living on the edge of your youth, you lover of life you beatnik you! But I tell you I am not moving forward, I’m swimming through the tiny opening in my tiny plastic castle with plastic moss on it, doing a figure 8 around the plastic fuchsia fluorescent plant, disturbing the cobalt pebbles on the floor and then wiggling to the surface for fish flakes even when there are none. All I do all summer is complain about the heat and yearn to cover cold skin in corduroy and jean and wool and cotton, but when it finally starts to get cooler I consider my bowl and the size and shape of my bowl and I try but cannot consider how to change the circumstance of my bowl. When I was 9 I had a fish named Herman, and in my decade-old perception of time I had Herman for many, many years. I was unsettled by his presence in my room, I cared for him but I tried not to look at him swimming and thrashing or sleeping and sinking. I felt as though he couldn’t breathe and that he was suffering, so whenever I did look at him I held my breath. One night I moved him from the desk in the corner of my room to the top of my dresser, overlooking my bed. I decided that I didn’t like the feeling of him staring at me and I was worried he was becoming jealous watching me breathe all through the night, so a day later I approached his bowl to move him back to the corner once more. I was still 100ft away when Herman jumped from his bowl, falling 5 (drawer) stories to the taught beige carpet, where he bounced once and writhed his plump body as it dried, as he breathed. As I rushed to his aide I felt something in my throat that wasn’t coming up or going down, and my skin tightened into rough bumps all over my body as his scales chaffed the cut pile. But as I sit here now I cannot remember if I could muster it in me to touch the creature whom I so feared and pitied, to return him to his little plastic kingdom. Ever since then I dream of Herman-esque goldfish, every month or so. A bowl will appear in the scene, with a grotesque version of Herman residing there. This fish is too large for the tiny bowl, and he has bulging white eyes. Although as clear as air; the water is filled to the brim, and in my dream-thoughts I know he cannot breathe- and just as I dream-think it, he jumps. I scramble to save the monster but I cannot pick him up.I typically wake knowing that I failed to save him. I wonder if it never happened, if it has always been a dream. If Herman never jumped and I just feared he would, I feared the responsibility I had to save him, the control I had over his bowl and the size and shape of his bowl and his inability to influence the circumstances of his bowl. I wasn’t satisfied with the tiny plastic castle with plastic moss on it, the plastic fuchsia fluorescent plant, the cobalt pebbles on the floor, or the fish flakes with a more attractive goldfish on the label. There is no one to provide me a better bowl, in fact there’s no bowl for me to escape from, nor anyone to pick up my flesh and return me to water. Although that lump in my throat returns often to remind me of my helplessness I know that I can breathe, and although that lump aches with the the cool breeze of near-September I will be glad when I can cover my goosebumps with corduroy and jean and wool and cotton, and I’ll try not to think of Hermans scales on the carpet because I know he cannot breathe like me
016/2024
My face feels tight, my legs are asleep and my ears are ringing
Didnt get to write down some thoughts on the ride from bushwick to Harlem because my phone was on 2% by 34th street. I wonder they went or what happened to them
015/2024
I wish I didn’t have to eat it’s such a fucking bummer. Everything is disgusting but I’m so hungry, everything costs money but I’m so broke, and everything makes me sick. I’m ill. I’m so ill. I’m so tired of being sick. I wish I didn’t have to sleep, I wake up in pain and more tired than I was when I went to sleep. What a fucking bummer. And it’s so irritating, it’s irritating to me but more so to everyone around me; to my boyfriend who has to listen to me complain and worry about what I can eat what I can’t eat what I should be eating and if I can pay for it. I hate myself, I’m so pathetic. He likes to fantasize about aggrandizing guerilla protests to make politicians care about celiac disease and to make federal laws that guarantee my safety in every restaurant. Literally no one cares, I don’t even care, it’s humiliating. “Gluten free”? Jesus Christ: white woman problem moment! It does indeed seem like that, thanks to my white-foodie-fitness foremothers who didn’t have celiac but decided the gluten free diet would be super fun and chic. But it seriously fucking sucks? I’m dreaming about a double quarter pounder so I get a $20 burger on soggy crumbly tiny slices of gluten free bread and cry lol. Like I actually cry. It’s so stupid. Like what the fuck? Can’t I just eat shit like everyone else and not like puke up blood or whatever. Can't I be 23 and live out of my car and sleep on couches and blow up mattresses without every muscle in my body screaming most of the day. I can't walk or go up stairs without pain and my head is dizzied and my vision is sharp or dull. And I guess I don't complain to my friends a lot, but I complain to my doctor and she seemingly doesn't care or just doesn't know how to help me. She prescribes me little green pills that I know I shouldn’t take because of my un-celiac-related(?) mysterious heart and brain, and I know she doesn’t have all the files from my cardiologists or neurologists or endocrinologists but I’ll take them anyways because whatever? They all said not to smoke or drink coffee because something about blood thinning and not being able to reach a precarious lesion on my brain stem and here I am. They put birth control in me then took it out because of the same reason and now I have a little tender scar on my arm and a bunch of condoms. But I won't relinquish cigarettes and coffee. I feel weak and wasted and confused and hungry but huge and throbbing and disgusting. I can’t take care of myself
014/2024
La da dee, la da doo
013/2024
Caught a glimpse of myself in an un familiar bathroom in a mirror I didn’t know was there- just the side of my face- glancing in my own direction the way I would a stranger. I noticed my lips coming to a sharper point on my cheeks than I remember and they’re a brighter red than normal. My slightly chapped lips drawing out the bright white in my skin and making me pale, filtered with grainy spots and acne. I was kind of pretty in that split second that I didn’t recognize myself, I saw my features objectively. Mousy curls escaping from a clip. I don't know. I have such extremely embarrassingly low self esteem for someone who is well past the teenage era of angsty confusing self hatred. But I don't have to look in the mirror much
012/2024
Saw my parents kiss on the mouth the other day for the first time in a long time, one time out of maybe a dozen times that I can remember. My dad moves in slow with exaggerated pursed lips and my mother cocks her head back, undetectably to an untrained eye, standing so still she might disappear as he plants one on her reluctant smirk. A show, a display in front of friends and family and family-friends. A strange show. Does she hate him? Is she disgusted by him? Does he love her? Does he really want to kiss her? As i watch, my gaze is younger, like a wide eyed baby trying to learn a new kind of affection. An affection between adults; people who “love” each other, people who made babies together. Learning what I’m supposed to do with the experience of their touch. And then the oldest me remembers scornful late-night hisses and all the cold mornings my dad sleeps on the couch. It’s not sad, it was so natural then. I’m not too old to need an example, not too old to want to see love between my parents. I hope he means it now
011/2024
I woke up this morning with a song in my head- a song composed by (___?___) 15 years ago in Mr. Ganleys 4th grade class. The first crush I remember having; he had large front teeth that stuck out past his perma-chapped bright red lips and didn’t touch. Muddy orange hair. Just remembered his name. Mr. Ganley would have to separate us because he made me laugh so hard. It was the kind of laughter that didn’t make any sense, uncontrollable surprising laughter that comes when you don’t know what’s funny yet. I remember sitting next to him in class and having my left foot resting on top if my right thigh, wearing suedeish brown boots accented with soft white fuzz. I look down and he's using safety scissors to snip off a little piece of fuzz and he whispers “Soft like a bunny” in a kind of creepy-mad-scientist-collecting-specimen kind of bit. He gave me the giggles. We rode the same bus and I felt an overwhelming disappointment when he’d get dropped off before me but I didn’t really know why. At that age boys become accessible and sweet but only for a moment, you have about a year before one by one they close themselves off and won’t be caught dead being kind or earnest. I just searched him on instagram and wish I hadn’t- a Marine(?) with four filtered posts of him posing uniformed and humorlessly, sporting just a few strands of muddy orange hair at the top of his head
010/2024
Graduating with a useless degree opens the world wide up to start from scratch and picture your Tonka townspeople or Barbies career line or Mr. Rogers B characters. Like an alien googling “Jobs”: Firefighter, Pilot, Hairdresser, Teacher, Police Officer, Postman… I saw a cop get on the train and strike a wide legged pose that was meant to hold him in place for balance as the train accelerates, because maybe it’s weak or embarrassing to hold onto the rail. He fell over. It was really funny.
I could cut hair, although my experience is mainly in exboyfriends and current boyfriend and a girl named LeighAnn Shoemaker whos jean-pocket length straight hair was the envy of most girls at Monocacy Middle School. I didnt cut her hair, but I fantasized about chopping it off as she slept: wrapped in her teal blue sheets, dirty blonde ends at eye level from my sleeping bag. It seemed as though all her confidence and wickedness came from her hair, and I imagined her rage would soothe me should she wake up to find it gone.
The FAA doesnt like pilots with incarceration records or current mood stabilizing deficiencies. My pilot instructor was also a firefighter, which is fucking awesome, but she seemed conceited and she lacked in personality, style, and overall ability to communicate or relate to others. I’d love to firefight, but I don’t think I can even do a pull up. And I dont imagine cigarette smokers are well liked among firefighters. There was a fire in Baltimore a few years ago that destroyed a block of rowhomes, because someone was ashing their Backwoods on the windowsill.
Mail carriers don’t get nearly enough appreciation for the amount of walking they have to do.
And although I feel a deep empty sadness whenever I have to interact with a girl between the ages 10-15 (she’s either already traumatized or about to be), it seems most imbeciles with art degrees have to be teachers. I like kids but I can’t help that they make me sad. If I had taken anything seriously during my entire pre, primary, secondary, high, or college career maybe I’d know what I want and be good at something. In art class in 7th grade, during our plaster unit, I would ball up a wet clump of cloudy newspaper and chuck it up at the ceiling whenever Mrs. Banes would turn away. To the delight of my classmates, this went on for a week. I’m sure it was not delightful to whoever sat in that same seat when it finally came crashing down, dried and dusty
009/2024
21 stops to go, trying to remember the last time I tasted red wine in my mouth. Maybe Dad offered me a sip, maybe I was at Johns place on Preston noticing his red teeth and blue tongue. Memories of white 3 days ago, bugs biting my legs while Khloe shakes her head at my 6 months and sneaks a glass into her purse. This train is going fast. I feel grateful for bold women, through my insecure stolen dress I take refuge in their bare shoulders and damp midriffs. I feel grateful for modest women alike, for heading towards New Lots and not leaving me alone. 13 stops, doors open for seething air at 14th street to remind me why I’m sweating
008/2024
Lately I wake up with such a dullness. It means nothing. No alarm, no noise or purpose either way. Just a silent consciousness that differs from sleep only with light entering my eyes. A waft of a thought: "Oh, I'm awake now." Neutral. Like a completely still day that isn't hot or cold, just one small breeze at 11:12am. And then I go on being still, not hot or cold, slightly less interesting than a dream.
007/2024
The only thing I have in common with the wealthy, blameless, and self righteous Job is the being-tested-by-God thing. Maybe the self righteous thing depending on who you ask. In Jobs story: God unabashedly teams up with Satan to fuck with Job, whereas usually when He does that He tries to make it less obvious. Satan argues to God that Job is sooooooo faithful only because he has everything he needs, so God agrees to allow Satan to take everything from him as a little bet to see if the schmuck will remain faithful to God. Satan laughs and says nahnahnahbooboo and spins around and farts at God, and then Job suddenly has nothing. He loses his family and everything he owns. His friends try to tell him that it’s his fault, that he’s wicked, that he must have done something to deserve it. Job for some fucking reason knows God is fucking with him and he holds onto the belief that God cares about him. Bible readers are meant to find solace in the fact that God had a “plan” all along. That when things get hard you just have to believe in God and at the end of the year he’ll put presents under the tree and eat the cookies and drink the milk. But to me it seems like a pretty low bar to find comfort in a God who conspires with the Devil. He’s waiting until you have nothing just to say “I told you so”. So that whenever something good happens you thank him for giving you something that he took away to begin with? So that you’ll be on the Nice list again next year. I guess if it makes kids behave, what’s the harm. I need a job
006/2024
I can’t listen to music on my phone while I drive from Baltimore to Brooklyn because I don’t have a phone charger in my car and the GPS drains the battery as I go, so, playing music would kill it too quickly and I’d get lost somewhere around Staten Island. Sometimes I’ll find a good radio station: classical music, NPR, the occasional call-in psychic specific to rural Jersey- and I’ll listen to that until it starts arguing with a broadcast preacher harping about steadfast faith or a classic rock channel deploying John Mellencamp to conquer the station all the way through north Delaware. Somehow all of the pop music stations on the radio play the same songs that they did when I was in high school and was in the habit of listening to the radio each morning as Grace drove us to school. I don’t mind driving in silence, it makes the time go quicker. I always do the first hour quietly, and then by the time I can employ cruise control I’ll let myself fiddle with my cigarettes or reward myself with whatever stale crackers are riding in the passenger seat. To the hum of the road I think about being in love: I criticize my form or expression or focus or omission, I mull over my fears and doubts and failures and goals, I project and anticipate my shortcomings. I think about my family: strategizing a relationship with my Dad and hoping for tenderness, carping at the last few months of my sisters lack of self awareness and hoping for reciprocal support, and often restoring a familiar furrow to my forehead as a I fear for my little brothers future. I can’t help him. I try to refrain from worrying about Mom because I know she’s worrying enough for the 6 of us combined. I spend some time missing my friends. I spend some time thinking about myself, mostly trying to marry how I’m seen and how I feel. Trying to find out what I want by thinking about what I used to want or why I used to be happy or if I ever was, but it’s fruitless. Hating myself for wasting time hating myself. And parking on Park Place with nothing to bare
I can’t listen to music as I walk because I don’t have any headphones
005/2024
I'm so irritated all the time and there's really no reason for me to be. I've always been thought to be rather easy going even when stuff sucks. I haven't worked in 2 months. Yet I'm completely stressed out all the time and even in those nice little moments I should be finding solace and comfort in, I'm tight and twisted up and annoyed. It's certainly got something to do with my near constant physical ailments and my waxing/waning/waxing/waning depressive mental state, but I get so annoyed at the stupidest things. At things that literally don't exist. I woke up at 5ishAM this morning (and multiple times last night) with a screaming pain in my neck and back, a scratchy throat (new), and a sharp headache. I've been sleeping in an evil hard-as-rock bed for 2 months, so returning to my boyfriends bed that I previously considered hard-as-rock seemed enticing in comparison. And yet, it was somehow much worse than ever before and my mouth/his ears were full of complaints before he could even open his eyes. I lay my head on his lap as he sips his coffee and my neck feels some temporary relief, except he isn't sipping his coffee he's taking rather large gulps. The auditory journey of the coffee from his lips to his stomach amplified by my ear up against his body, the incorrectness of his sip size and the fervor with which he is sipping is all I can think of while I should be enjoying a moment. Why? Why am I like that? Who cares about the slight discrepancy of the amount of liquid he swallows and the amount of liquid I feel it's appropriate to swallow? A non-situation becoming a situation by my half asleep delusion and half awake sensitivity. My thoughts are that a cup of coffee at 6am is meant to be quietly sipped, you can gulp water or maybe even juice a few hours later. Maybe it's the technique not the amount... ? Where have I come up with all of these rules and why the uncontrollable urge be completely insufferable even to my own standards, in my own head? Odds are I sip my coffee in the same way just with the impossibility of my own ear on my own lap. I refrained from criticizing him this time, but I have been too liberal with my needling opinions a lot lately. One day he won't be able to stand me. I really need to sort this out. I'm a terror. Maybe it's because I've binged 12 seasons of Larry David and he's brainwashed me with subliminal blunt neurosis. Maybe it's because it's early in the morning. Maybe it's because I'm going off my mood stabilizers unsupervised. Maybe I'm schizophrenic or like on the spectrum. Maybe it's just my dad in me, maybe I won't be able to stop. A horrifying thought. But what a waste of fucking time to be irritated
004/2024
I’m on the 4th floor. Living in someone else’s room and sleeping in someone else’s bed is isolating and disorienting. At first it feels freeing; like you can hone in on yourself and measure the space you take up in the world by looking at images on the wall that aren’t yours and spines of books on the shelf you’ve never read. And weeks go by in limbo
Three days ago I was walking down the steps of my sub-let and I smelled a dirty wet citrus, the air like a rag that wore out of Ajax. The stairs were wet and I took caution as I paced down them with heavy deliberate steps, my sneakers sinking into the sticky water. I must have been the only person to come or go in the time it took the water to dry, because now the soles of my shoes are a semipermanent design in the black and white tile- up to unit 18 and back. So now I trace my steps up and down: the me yesterday, the day before, this morning. I take note of my body, I notice what’s in my stomach, what isn’t, what was yesterday. What’s in my hands or if my legs hurt, if I’m seeing stars or dripping sweat. I compare it to someone else in my shoes. Someone from yesterday who was having the same thoughts as me: what to eat, when to smoke, what to do. I’m disconnected from her, and I really don’t care for her or her shoes. It’s reassuring to come “home” and be reminded you’ve been here before, despite not wanting to be here or not wanting to walk up 4 flights of stairs. Like carving your name into your desk in middle school, sitting down, and running your fingers over the dents affectionately as you think about what’s on TV at home. I feel like I’m always thinking about what’s on TV at home. But I’m not going home, I’m in some girl named Ericas room on Her extra-firm bed as I listen to my temp roommate Daniel sitting outside Her door with His girlfriend in His living room and I don’t want to walk passed them and make awkward eye contact to get a glass of water in His kitchen. The space I take up isn’t much more than mop water footprints
003/2024
I have this feeling that writing is self induldgent. That to write about my thoughts and feelings makes me narcissistic. I think I feel that way about everything, though, that any form of introspection or insecurity or creation is self serving. And I am ashamed. Because who the fuck cares? Like for example: the morning after a party you're analyzing everything you said and every conversation you had, and you're texting your best friend like fuck I fucked up and everyone fucking hates me right? And of course they say no. But who are you to even think you matter so much anyways? Who are you to think that anyone is thinking about anything you said? This anxiety doesn't actually keep me from saying dumb shit or writing down my thoughts or making art so it really serves no purpose and ultimately cancels out. But it leaves me in the middle. Consciousness is such a sickness. I try to stay on the extremes- loving completely blindly or hating if I must. It drives consciousness away. I do believe everything is beautiful and lofty, I do. So it's also horrible sometimes, and thats fine. It's strong, it's necessary, it's still beautiful this way. I have to escape that middle ground, that back and forth of 'does anyone care/who fucking cares', because I'll get stuck and nothing will be beautiful or horrible. So fuck you, I love you
002/2024
I've been alone so much. I just realized I haven't seen anyone I know in a week. I'm not really sure what I've been doing. Looking for jobs, I guess, going into every coffee shop in Brooklyn and showing my tits and doing a little dance and saying please please oh pretty please give me a job. On my way from one shop to another in Williamsburg I did a little second hand shopping. Wracked with guilt over diverting from my pilgrimage to make money only to spend money; "I never buy clothes", I told myself, "This will make me feel good", I said. One hundred and thirty something dollars-I-don't-have later I took home 2 dresses, a skirt, 2 shirts, and a pair of prada/not prada black shoes. Trying not to Bushwhickify myself but still wanting to try new things. I went out alone, again, the next day and I got a few compliments on my new patchwork-esque dress. It's long, I bunched it up using a hair clip and paired it with red and white sneakers to go into the city for some more alone time. On my way into the subway a man said "I like your dress". I'd say he scored almost 100% on the innocent compliment scale because he had such a squeaky clean smile and he was carrying an umbrella. It wasn't raining and it wasn't meant to rain, but his preparedness made me think he had other things on his mind and doesn't make a habit out of creeping women out. When I arrived at the American Folk Art Museum I was admiring a quilt by Mozell Benson and a woman told me that my dress matches the textiles. I said "Oh thank you, I was hoping to blend in today." So awkward when you instinctually respond "Thank You" to a statement that wasn't a compliment. But she laughed. I took the A home instead of waiting for the C so I had to get off at Nostrand and Fulton and take the 44 home. Annoying. I paced around but I wasn't gonna wait 10 mins for the bus when it was only 15 mins to walk from there. As I turned to leave, a man with a less-than-squeaky face said "Damn, you're beautiful. I love you in that dress." I gave him my best fuck you face and he said "Girl you're beautiful as hell, you know that?". As a feminist I turn my nose up and as a woman with issues I welcome the heckle. Probably more like a 35% for this guy but he did have a great smile. And lastly, I pass an old man sitting on a corner stoop eyeing me (as much as he can with his glassy cataract eyes). He looks at me, and then vaguely at my body, and says "I like that". Alright man. Like 10% at least be specific. I walked the rest of the way against the wind, trying to imagine what they see as I feel the dress clutch the curve of my stomach and cling to my hips- I moved with more sex in my steps than I did when I left that morning. Something may be wrong with me. I still need a job
001/2024
You get into bed and you’re staring off, time is moving very quickly just looking at the wall, sitting up in bed. You still need to brush your teeth. Maybe you’re in an uncomfortable position but your body hasn’t told your brain to tell your body to move yet. Maybe you’re clutching your knees, and maybe your eyes start examining the little dark hairs poking out, just beginning to go from stubble to soft after forgetting that you started shaving again and forgetting you have to keep shaving. A neutral observation of the hair, as hair can be controlled- and personally it’s neither here nor there whether there is hair there or ne’re hair. But then you move on to the freckles and the moles, sparse and dark against the pale white of your thighs, thighs that don’t see the sun (maybe because of the stubble- but more likely because of how sticky and disgusting the fat of the back of your legs feel on a bench, a bus, or a train in this heat). You remember in fourth grade, when you were first informed that freckles are cute and moles are gross- you insisted you have freckles and no moles! but your classmates insisted otherwise. The moles on your arm are mostly indistinguishable from the freckles to the untrained eye, mainly due to the crowd and their assimilation with the tone of the skin- as your arms do not need to rest on benches or buses or trains, for the most part. You inspect a scar on your knee that has now been healing exactly a year, there’s a pseudo sensitivity as you press down on it; your memory of pain replacing the benign touch of your forefinger. You wonder if the ridged pink body will ever fade, but you feel grateful for the work your knee has done to settle it in. Good knee! You kiss it. You remember a similar scar from a similar accident 15 years prior, and in your inspection you notice a small, slightly raised, slightly white scar (just above the one-year-old) that you had believed was gone. If you believed it was gone, does it matter that it’s there? Big news, who do I tell! It’s a testament to your body, to your asphalt-splattered-roller-blade-wearing (or maybe scooter-riding?) summer-of-your-10th-year body. You notice bug bites from arguably imaginary ants in your room. Tiny blue veins that must be tight to your surface, together changing the hue of your skin as a whole in their sprawling yard. Tattooed marks you made when you were troubled and other kinds of marks you made around the same time. You need to clip your toenails. And then in a moment, an uninterested clock moves on- the conversation with yourself suspends and you forget your observations before both eyes can gesture back to the wall
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