My blue carries out my wishes and imagination, splaying itself across the foreground of my lively imagination as I fantasize about my future and my lover, living in the city of my childhood.
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I objectify her with the eyes of the man of my worst nightmare, internalizing her body parts as a collection of props and comparing them with my own.
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As I grew, school officials demanded I stay hidden. When my adult years arrived, I was smacked with the opposite reaction.
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Syd would ask me to close my eyes and touch the tip of her tongue to my eyelids and trace the tip of her pointer finger over my stomach and breathe in my ear and say…
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If I inflated that personal bubble enough, no one would see my many imperfections, hear the stumbles in my voice, feel the uneven bumps on my skin.
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It felt like an epiphany, like my body was responding to the process.
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We’ve never truly evolved out of our baby brains, object permanence—I love myself in the eyes of others
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i’d like to think that you have cried a thousand times in your heart
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It’s better not to know, I reasoned. It’s better to pretend nothing happened.
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