vanishing act,

afraid to get too close, too quickly. reveal too much, too soon. if I’m too much too soon, there’ll be push back. Maybe its safer to pull back,

before it’s done

before they..

before I..

step away, quietly…

Unsure how to cool off a burning back when faced with discomfort. Being seen is the hardest part. Did I say something wrong, maybe the joke didn’t land. Why break off when I can keep myself whole, together. Fragments still mine.

too much. not enough? both; always both. but for who? how to temper a burn when scorned by vulnerabilities. The more I’m understood, the better I feel… the more they stay the hotter it gets. Eyes lingering. Steam seeping through, bearing their weight, barely able to stand. Did I say something wrong? did I not say enough?

Fuck. Rewind, rethink, again… rewin-rethin-again… rethink. rewind, fuck.

Maybe I should tear it all down, save myself from the shadow of humiliation that surrounds my very core -seemingly an encompassing act as if I’m a jester in my own personal court.

They can see that I try, retreat, try a little less. cool, off.

Craving a version of the internal sunshine of a spotless mind, not out of heartbreak but fuck it burns so bad, maybe I’ll collapse in snow on the way out and freeze; enough to drift away. maybe then there won’t be anymore burns. The world forgetting a person they never truly knew in the first place. Minimal interactions, minimal burns, those of which are easy to mend. Maximum interactions, forced to mummify in order to heal… so I should preemptively save myself. Get rid of all access, “accidentally” dive nose first into agoraphobia, it’s ok if I bleed this was my doing. Only I have to reckon with, I. Scopophobia I think, is where I really land once flattened out.

This burning back, due to mental picking, tearing, ripping away at skin. hoping to pull a new self out, breaking into sweats, shame burning through when tasks fail. Clinging for self, one I cannot reach... Only I have to reckon with, I.

Use of my name; fully attached. Initials with a slight altering; detached at arms length. Though, arms not long enough to be considered arms, only able to reach so far, an unwanted exposure, burning, with another act of being too close.

A wanting, to be invisible, to choose a scream when meet with the need; a ghost when it wants to be heard, no longer part of the wallpaper. the internet is a damning place, no true refuge, here the algorithm decides for us. Strangers lined up, ready to listen with open eyes, ready to watch with open ears. It’s a reckoning, dealing with this habit of a burning back. each time it scores through, creating callouses; scars over continued scarred skin. Heat grazes softened untouched areas, a reminder, of persistent subtlety. An inevitable act, for one so brave.