Britney

I say, I can’t believe that I was just writing about being unable to fit inside of myself anymore and existing halfway between these limbs and nothingness and feeling sickened by the skin of those I must touch every day and here you are, becoming my skin in less than two hours.

I see the end already because I look for the worst to save myself. Then I bury it and wait.

Before we are together, I write:

I envy the way that they [men] always seem comfortable, able to move around without the force of 20 voyeurs on their chest. (Mine hide in my breasts, gnawing at the fatty tissue. They prepare for a hibernation that will never come.)

And then I am comfortable. ♦