I’m rubbing the skin off of my back in the shower and I’m crying because it feels as if I am scrubbing pieces of you away. I hate the way peeling skin seems endless, and no amount of my fingers rubbing in circles over my shoulder seems to end the stream of shedding skin. It is so uncomfortable to become new.
I wonder how I will get through this. I think of you. You tell me that it is normal to feel out of balance at times. Be patient. These are things I’m trying to pretend I already knew. I hate the way simple advice sounds just right but also makes you feel silly for not thinking of it on your own. It is so uncomfortable to be uncomfortable in your own skin.
I ask you to tell me that you love me, that you value me, that I have a place in your life to defend at all. My head wraps me in circles of drowning until I forget about you and I leave myself lost in ideas of whatever’s left. It’s mostly ugly. It’s so uncomfortable to hate yourself in the ways that I’m trying to undo.
It isn’t from you, but it well up in the holes I have left from where you fit. I don’t know who I am now that you’ve touched me. It’s so uncomfortable to be without you. It’s so uncomfortable to become new.