Red, Sticky, Burning, Hot

My skin is always burning. Always red, sticky, burning hot, silently rupturing with newborn pustules. I can’t help but feel gratitude for my skin when it’s not red and hot, when it embodies a glow synonymous with the marigold, when it doesn’t break my heart but instead invites others to mend it. When I am red burning sticky hot I am numb. Separate from the outside world, and separate from myself. I read to pass the time, but I’m shaking. I sit to pass the time, but I’m crying. But my tears. My tears

Fall

Fall

Fall

Into myself. Out of myself. I am red hot sticky hot, and an itch swells behind my cornea. I scratch my eyes. I wish I could scratch myself away, as punishment for the tear. The saline burns my eyes and makes me redder. I take a picture of myself, and I want to cry again, but instead I gnaw my bedroom sheets.

I feel red, sticky, burning hot. I feel red burning, hot, sticky.

I am red hot, sticky, hot.