I imagine myself as a character from a Guillermo del Toro movie. I sit in a chair in a café and place my hands on the table. It rocks; it is uneven. The room goes black and white and my limbs snap and break and bend into new position. This is an exaggeration of growth. Bones snapping into new you.
If I saw myself walk down the street five years ago I wouldn’t recognize myself.
I read Lolita when I was a teenager. I read Henry Miller. I read Stephen King’s Desperation. I poured over Anaïs Nin. I could smell the smoke on the pages of Charles Bukowski. My skin smells like weed and beer bottles. My fingers are smooth from turning pages.
There is a lump in my throat from all the things I haven’t said, coming up. These things that have rotted inside of me aren’t useful anymore. I’ve been trying to treat the rot. I’ve been trying to treat the water damage, tears rolling back down my esophagus. Pull the rot out, rebuild.
Everyone should know what it’s like to turn twenty-eight. I’ve been walking around a body for all these years and it’s like my soul has slammed back inside of me.
I don’t know that you ever find yourself. Your self finds you. Quiet and alone one night in bed when you’re not sure who you are anymore. It crawls up under silk sheets and slicks itself against your skin.