As I lay drifting in and out of wakefulness this morning, the soft skidding sounds of early morning commute beginning to rouse me, my hand ran along my own flank.
I was so startled that consciousness rushed back to me like the bed was spinning. I can feel my hipbones again.
My collarbones twitch under the skin now, and I saw a rib poke out the other day.
And it terrifies me. To my very marrow. To the molecules that make up my marrow. Can I be good? Can I be pure and sane? The urge to crush and dominate is so strong in me that I fear without a layer of fat and ugliness to separate us that I shall become a callus cruel thing again.
Sharp like glass, cold and lovely like diamonds. But dead all the same.
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