Fiction (?): Skin


I’m backed into the damned corner. Again. Not a physical corner formed by the union of two solid walls. The place in my mind, it’s a black dusty mine that waits for a gap in my happiness so I might fall into it. Haplessly, I do arms around my knees and head tucked in. My sooty lungs press hard against rib cages not built to take the rpm of my beating heart.

I am not nice. I do not belong the name “Mia”. I am not the scarred brown skin that thinly veils my continued existence. I am not the tentative smile centered by two brown eyes.

I am a dark night dappled in stars, covered in howling wind and cold rain like hard fingers.

Sometimes I am the words I read, the shows I watch, a part of a far flung community of inside jokes.

Mostly though, i am the banshee heralding my own demise. That wretched woman who screams and screams that falls on deaf ears of the living. The things she knows about the all things she does not, insanity. Wailing wailing waling, unnoticed by passersby caught up in their own affairs. 

i … i am lost among people who love me. i, who know not how to pull off the leaches that suck the light out of me, surely do not deserve that warmth nor can carry that weight of it.

There is a silent horror that lives behind the eyes of the tortured, i’ve come to know. It’s masked by a habitual tiredness.

Horror birthed from dark seeds, physical and mental trauma are it’s famous progeny. Little fears of mundane objects is the stealthy child. I don’t do enough. They’ll hate me. I’ll never make it. Not good enough, not smart enough, don’t want this bad enough. No one will love me. The only see my missing hand not what barely remains. Cripple. Slut. Whore. Coward. Bastard. Faggot. Waste of space.

Worst of all sometimes it is me, it is us, who tells these thing to ourselves.

Mia is a kind girl, but i am not kind to her, not from my perch in the abyss. She tells me things like I am worth it. Their words don’t define us, our will to prove them wrong does. Be happy to spite. There will be good days. I am loved, if by no one else, then I am loved by me. I have a purpose. I have a place. I need to be brave. Just suck it the f**k up and move on.

i try to reconcile those words with the ones echoing in the abyss, bouncing off coal embedded walls, wicked sharp and unforgiving. There are no diamonds here. Mia sounds naive, optimistic and so young. How can she be me? i am disgusted and so afraid i’m nauseous. Somebody should protect that last glimmer of unadulterated sunshine. Maybe i should. i sigh. 

With skinny arms I climb up jagged walls that gave way to a hole in the ground, had forgotten what fresh air really felt like. I sit now the lip of the hungry chasm, my skin drinking in the generous sun. I know this is not the last time. I am not that stupid.

This is not a happy ending. It never ends.

I shade my eyes with a hand, squinting at the blue lined horizon. A phantom pain lances me, not for the first time and I understand. I am not a lone because of my individual pain, I am connected to other people because we share it.

I push to my feet, swaying a little and step forward. Again. More holes, or various incarnations of them, litter the landscape of our earth, people fall into them every day.

I hope you always make it out.

© Devina S.

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11 thoughts on “Fiction (?): Skin

  1. Blue vs Yellow #inside-out
    “nobody dies a virgin… life faks us all” #kurtcobain
    I love me #Hailee
    Hope! ,,\/,

    all that jet across inside me head while daring a piece of you
    (they*)

    1. Would that I could, Jam. I do when I can. I speak often through my stories and even then I know they’re ambiguous.

      I know a few bloggers who are immensely brave in that they speak their pain, uncertainty, hopes and knowledge so openly I can only sit in awe. I’m just chicken 🐥
      (and nah, I don’t)

    1. In time perhaps I will. In a way I’m very chatty but I’m a private person especially on the interwebs. Not to mention how much time blogging takes from me, heh.

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