MY LIFE IS A LIE AND I'M TELLING THE TRUTH

SOMEONE ELSE USES MY BODY WHEN I’M NOT AROUND. THEY IMPERSONATE ME, LIVE THROUGH ME, REVELLING IN DISSOLUTION. MY EYES TURN OFF. MY MOUTH SMELLS STRANGE. I WAKE UP FROM ONE REALITY UNABLE TO RECOGNIZE MYSELF OR CALL MY BODY MY OWN. I’M NOT A REAL PERSON. I LOOK RIGHT ON THE OUTSIDE, BUT ALL MY BONES ARE IN THE WRONG SPOTS. I HAVE TO PULL MYSELF ON IN THE MORNING SO THAT NOBODY FINDS OUT. IF I MOVE THE WRONG WAY OR MY FACE DRAGS TOO LOOSE I’LL EXPOSE MYSELF, DESTROYING MY IDENTITY. SITTING ON THE FLOOR BESIDE MY BED, I IMAGINE SEWING EACH OF MY ORIFICES SHUT, SEALING OFF THE LOOSE THREADS THAT BETRAY MY SENSE OF SELF. I WOULD CURL INTO MY BODY LIKE A DYING INSECT, TOTALLY ABSORBED IN MY INTERIOR REALITY, UNABLE TO ESCAPE MYSELF.

THERE’S A SPOT UNDER MY ARMPIT WHERE MY SKIN HANGS CROOKED, AS THOUGH MY LIFELESS FAT HAD COLLAPSED THROUGH MY BONES INTO THE EMPTY SPACE INSIDE ME. I LIKE TO SIT NAKED ON THE TOILET AND RUN MY FINGERS ACROSS THE BUMPS AND SOFT PATCHES THAT DELINEATE MY ANATOMY, THE SEAMS I HAVEN’T YET BEEN ABLE TO WORK OVER. I MEASURE HOW MUCH MY STOMACH FOLDS OVER AND HOW FAR ACROSS EACH STIFF SHOULDER BLADE PRESSES OUT. I HAVE TO CORRECT MY BODY IF I WANT TO BECOME REAL. EVERY INCH IS A FLAW TO WORK OVER AND ERASE.