For as long as I can remember, I’ve been in this suit, this overcoat of what you see, this visage of who you think I am. It slips sometimes and snags on things, but I pull it back and secure it again with chip clips and zip ties. I writhe inside because my body rejects it, this disguise, this barrier to my pain, but the rage in my blood boils bad and burns the inside seams and I thrash and thrash, but not to worry—I’m tethered tight again and I don’t think anything could stop that now, what with the needles and pins and wiring and guts of the thing, its guts my guts, it’s wiring my wiring. I live this way because living outside of it would be like poison in the face, like strychnine in the throat, like weasels in the garden. I plan to go on like this forever, the veil always up and the hog always in satin and the face of me hidden behind this kabuki theatre mask, this Geisha-like lie, this hollow but very full façade. I hope you like it because I made it just for you. And for me. And for every Tom, Dick and Harry I’ve ever known or had the pleasure of letting down, so just wait your turn at the tailor because I need an alteration and my true self may not survive the fitting. My inseam is mine and no one else’s. I think it’s better this way, for me, for you, for Tom, Dick, Harry, and every other schmuck and his brother, so let’s just call the whole thing off.
@o-death