This may hurt a bit, she says, as she pricks me with the needle. I walk home on a Friday night in the city, the 20-somethings heading to their parties, and think about how tickling it felt to believe in the magic of an unknown evening.
By morning, my skin aches and I spend 24 hours writhing in side effects, unable to leave bed or remember how to think at all. The reprieve was scheduled in my calendar. Nowadays everything is planned, even recovery. I see the years fall away from me but also return, old, unwanted garments I thought I had discarded which turned out only to gather dust in my closet waiting for the right time. I try them on for size, they cling to my skin and weigh me down, I fear they’ll suffocate me this is not what I wanted.
Take a deep breath. Remember I know how to remove what I know longer want. Remember I know what it feels like when your skin fits the home you’ve created for yourself.
Go to sleep in a fever dream. Determine your start over in the morning.
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