If I stay here, what will happen to me? I feel I am already without my skin, that every gentle breeze burns acid hot against me and debris clings to and jabs at my coagulated flesh.

  Suppose I never leave. When will I end? What will be the event that finally stops me if nothing ever happens? I worry if I step outside that piece by piece I will lost myself. In my imagination I feel my muscles sliding from my bones, letting go of their tendons. The fat that insulates and protects me slips away, suddenly there is nothing holding me together, nothing is in place. My exposed bones begin to erode so easily, as if already decayed, as if rotten and stale this entire time.

  Even in my mind it hurts. Even as a fake fantasy it makes me flinch.

  But if I never stray from this spot again, paralysed and frozen by the sharp sting of the sun through the window on my vulnerable insides, what happens then? Let the dust pile on me to protect me from the light? Let birds nest in my eye sockets? Let the companionless silence disintegrate my ear drums? Well, I suppose so, if I do not discover any courage. I suppose that will indeed be my fate.



There are other people that live like this too, aren’t there?



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