I can’t decide if the gnawing in my belly means I’m sick or just anxious, but I think it’s probably both.
Yesterday was an odd day. I cried yesterday.
I cried today, too.
Maybe that’s what happens after you wear too many masks, when you smile when you’re supposed to and go to bed every night at 10 pm sharp and always refill your gas tank when the gauge needle hits the midway point. Maybe that’s what happens when you forget what your real face looks like.
I never cry.
Yesterday, I stared at my reflection, my real reflection. I saw a frightened girl with sunken eyes and a down-turned mouth. Her arms, outstretched, waiting for some comfort. She began to cry, so I did, too.
The worst part of being anxious is being unable to get out of my own head. I know I invented the Jupiter-sized asteroid heading toward me (yes, just me – not the Earth, not the continent, not my hometown, but ME), that my situation is only as destructive as I make it, but none of that matters.
My intestines feel like an octopus, writhing with intentions of escaping my tense, poisonous body.
Today, I tried to talk to the girl in the mirror. We could only cry together, just like the day before, but today was different, somehow. I could feel her heart beating, and I swear I could almost sense her thoughts. She carried a squirming creature inside her belly, too.
All I want is to be myself, but I don’t know who that is. I don’t know where I went, or if I can return. I stretched my arms toward the girl. I think she understands.
Tomorrow, I’m going to burn these masks. I’m going to shoot a rocket into this stupid asteroid, blow it into oblivion, and get drunk and spew out this churning thing inside me. Perhaps then I’ll be able to find myself, find my place, my soul.