My ears are numb. My neck is agony. My whole face feels a different shape, my eyes are too wide. My shoulders even feel odd. The skin all over my body is dead. I scratched my neck. I scratched my shoulders my cheek my stomach. I have all these scratches and no memory of slicing myself. That sounds odd, like I’m taking a kitchen knife to my fingers, slicing them thin and placing them in a cooking pot. Or scoring little lines in my flesh. Like a tally. Or a line-drawing.
I’d rather be at work. I’d rather be on my feet, making my own decisions, making my own fucking meals. I’m wasting away. Shaking away. I feel inhuman. Less than? Just different. I don’t feel like who I am. And the punctuation is fairly arbitrary.
Watch her get restless.
Dammit. I liked my neck. It was long and it has those little tendons running down the sides. I had hollows and indentations around my collarbones. It was pretty. I liked my neck. Now I have some round, swollen trunk keeping my head up. I want me back. I look different, but I only feel different when I remember that I’m sick.