To Force a Shed

My skin sags across my arms, it melts, and sloshes around. The feeling is heavy and awkward, like my limbs and torso were transplanted from another host. Veins bump into each other along the muscles, tendons, all the fleshy cables that have been frayed and abused, then quickly abandoned and left to function on their own. 

Is it possible to force a shed? Says the snake that keeps wanting to eat itself. To force a shed, to wake up a different being. To rid yourself of all those disgusting scales that control your entire identity. At that point, why not pluck the fangs and tongue that cause untrue words, repetitive go-to phrases just to feel part of something, vocals that communicate only a surface level understanding of what you claim to be. 

Anger brought from the half of myself that is crying and scared of anything on the outside. I never left my room after those years of self-induced isolation. The room is inside of me. I need to find the door. Rid myself of this crooked house with chipping paint and broken walls. 

Need to find an exit, need to break a window, where are the doors? Where are the windows? 

To force a shed is to break down the door with my bare feet, kick until the splinters integrate themselves into my tissue. And then inside I will find what is making me suffer to this extent. 

Maybe then I will find the monster who embodied me all those years in a location where I was supposed to learn about myself and the world.