Skin lasts more than nothing, holds too much (my lungs wheeze!) moisture under crinkled wrapping.

It is light, too light.

Perhaps I’ve never gotten over anything. These are the moments that meld together into a sticky, mutating clump of twitching aversion. A ball of tar that leaks from the holes in my colander skull, gnashing calcium at its base eroded by half a life of SSRIs and fingers down my throat. I feel these events only in latex-coated tension, in dulled points of contact on parts of my body that have forgotten they exist until this very moment.