𓆦

          I can feel my bones aching, skin both too tight and pooling off in loose waves. This isn’t meant for me anymore. I wonder if it ever was.

         Like a cicada buried in the dark , freshly burst free from that delicious squeeze of the earth around it, who hasn’t felt the air in seventeen years, who knows nothing but that dark, warm weighted blanket, who’s skin is burned by the cool dry air.

        I drag my nails down my back, skin splitting over the ridges of my vertebrae, and peel myself out of this shameful shape.