Amputee

I want to disappear. Just for a while. Not answer e-mails, phone calls, text messages. I want to start feeling like myself again – lose 15 lbs, fit into dresses I could 6 months ago, look in the mirror and recognize past face and skin the ?woman? inside her own body.

How much do we have to practice being in our skin? Like anything else – cellos, trumpets, painting – the more we practice, the better we are and for as long as I’ve been in my body, why am I not an expert? Are we ever? I’m beginning to think not.

Soul and skin retract and slip like two continental plates running into each other. Things break off, new islands are created. I wonder how this most recent collision will change me? As the aftershock wears off – parts of me will stand and parts of me will fall. I’ll be remade from my own rubble.

But what do you do when something feels like a gangrene arm, do you cut it off or try to save it? Either way it will never be how it was – fluid, connected, mapped from freckle to freckle skin to skin. I pick up what I think is a hand, but the phantom limb takes over.

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