the inescapable urge to self-destroy

It's been there ever since I was 17. It lingers like the last dredges of an edible, after the fun wears off -- all I feel is sluggish, no strength to lift my arms as I melt away and pretend I am someone else, someone worse, someone terrible. 

I pretend I am a sleazebag working a night shift at a poorly paying job, always smelling like a pretentious incense, skinny like i never eat. No friends, I am invisible. I play my games and jump out of moving vehicles and jump from high places and pretend I am just as fragile in the games as I am in real life. I feel the scrape of pavement against my skin like it is just-almost-real, a tingling pull against my arms and legs and torso. 

I pretend I am a beautiful not-woman, with big stretched ears and baby bangs. Skinny like i never eat. Black on black clothes and scarves and a feeling like smoke hanging around me. I stare a gaze that pierces strangers on the sidewalk as I walk past in chunky heeled boots. Pretty, and funny. I attend concerts and get invited backstage. I know the bands personally, always at an arm's length. 

I feel real life pulsating around me along with my heartbeat, my mattress sinks into my body as my limbs dissolve, like I can't even move or laugh or look at anything anymore. It's fun. 

I think it's fun. 

Even long after I am 17, years since I've even touched the things I used to have, I still think about it. I feel the pulse burrow into my stomach when I look out at the foggy sky. I feel the itch on my skin. 

Does it go away? Do I want it to? 

I kind of want to sink into my bed again and feel like my body has dissolved. Just one more time.