☠︎︎

Maybe if I could peel away this shameful skin that’s been draped over me like a weighted blanket in the middle of June, hot and heavy and unwanted, there would be something better underneath. I could crack my head and split off the top like a soft boiled egg, scoop out the yellow sticky thoughts and leave it clean for light to shine through, then I’d finally be good. Even my own skeleton betrays me, and I’m still trapped inside. A part of me wants to cry but I know I’d feel too shamed by tears. I wish the world could know these bones aren’t mine. How could they be? If I saw my skull free from its skin I doubt I’d recognise it no matter how long my leaden eyes have rested heavy in the gaping sockets. What would I be if I had none of myself? Would I be only myself? 

How odd this consciousness is.