Shedding
Alison Wen What you see is a glowing presence that guides me through the dark. What you see is a prancing gait that carries me constantly everyday. My days are filled by casting protective charms and freeing brittle voices. I truly enjoy completing these tasks, I do. I refill their time with purpose, and I rejuvenate their youth with hope. Like ripples on the water’s surface, my brilliance reaches where my light touches. How come no one sees that I am growing dimmer, that I am a fake. It’s a facade. By locking doors and closing curtains, I’m safe from expectations and responsibilities. This is what you don’t see. I finally shed. My skin starts to peel and my face starts to melt. The body I walk in during daylight is added to the pile in the corner, left to rot and decay. In the bubble of my home, I do nothing. My dull interior eats and sleeps on repeat, with no regard to anything. It’s like I’m floating, hovering over the earth that I can’t touch. Am I really living? Whenever I’m here, there’s an incessant tapping in my head, steady as a heartbeat, yet there’s no headache. I’ve come to realize that there’s no break in these rites of passage. Suddenly the tapping stops. I open my eyes to the same routine and the same world. A fresh covering has formed and I’m glowing again. I can’t wait for the moon to rise. I want to shed. |