PICK THE SCAB~

why do i do it? why do i? why dig up corpses and then act all shocked when they are rotting and filled with maggots and make you gag and feel ill?


i can't help it. i cannot help it. it's some pathetic compulsion, watching the blood gather the tides under my skin after i pull off a half healed chunk of tissue. it's itching, god! that's because it's healing, i know, but FUCK IT, i want to just.. get, owch! get it off, oh fuck, it's bleeding again....

why do i want it? it's the same as wanting to model naked.

though my flesh exposes me so much less than my handwriting. that, to me, is a greater intimacy than my body, because it comes from somewhere deeper than my breasts. it's stronger than that, and much more terrifying. if i ever give you something i made with my hands, marked with my writing, or my drawings, or some sort of intimacy, that is so much more real to me than nudity or sex. it is then that i trust you. it is then that i love you. the last time i did that, it was origami.

i haven't done origami since then. the site of the paper, well, it's buried in a drawer, and i pretend it isn't there. oh, no. i did a mental health training course and spent the whole time shaking, making tiny tiny paper cranes out of the sheet of note paper, and the back end of the name tag the gave us, the glossy side of a sticker. i divided it up as small as i could, to make as many tiny birds as possible. i made a tiny chinese vase, and i was going to make a box to hold them all, but i could not make my fingers form it.

i threw them all out at the end of the day because they, like my handwriting and folded sheets of paper, mean nothing all that important anymore.