skin
In the factory of flesh, humans are delicately dipped into a soft glaze of porcelain. Small bubbles escape to the surface, gasping for air as they emerge from the dermis. Angels cook the skin in a kiln, its doughy exterior rising until its crust is begging to burst. It emerges fragile and soft. Praying to be touched, ripped apart and eaten. In every extreme of its fragility, it is attracted to the same depth of destruction.
Critical flesh, resting on the cusp between the satisfaction of shallow touch, and the desire to be dissected to understand what's inside. It is there to protect me, they say. Yet skin is what causes me so much pain. How it stings and screams with open wounds. And futile to the pain that penetrates pores and gnaws at the heart. To remind me I am human perhaps. And what an isolating experience it is.
Love strips away the senses and drenches them in the drunken effects of pure adrenalin. You don't even notice you are hurt until you look down to see blood gushing from the gash in your defenses. That's when you realize it hurts. But by then, the damage has been done, and you preferred the reality before you looked down.
I was dating a college athlete, I am not sure who I was intending to impress with my dribbles and juke moves on the soccer field. But by then we were not dating, and to him I was the interesting specimen that was smart, kind and debatably athletic. Bound to a school in Southern California, where she could escape. Seductively out of reach.
The turf field radiated a playful heat, hopeful of the ripe four months of summer before we all departed for our committed colleges in the fall. Four months. Surely not enough time to fall in love. Until it was.
There were floating assumptions about the figure referred to as Abigail McDowell. Her name often accompanied in sentences of pity and confusion. Always walking the halls in silence, with her eyes tracing the lines of tile as she paced from point A to B. Never connected to the same people for chronic periods. Detached and not subtle about it at all. Speculations arose that she left Michigan to escape her family.
I do not deny any of these partial truths, but they never came close to capturing my essence. To be defined as misunderstood was such an invalidating cliche. I understood enough about myself that I kept others away in spite of it. It was a depth I would not ask anyone to dig.
Sam was a gentle giant. He fell into the category I defined as both popular and kind. He did not strike me as someone with adversity in his life, or the awareness to perceive it within others. I was invisible to this archetype of man. Or perhaps that is the way I preferred it to be. I knew all I needed to know about people like him with the tidy exchange of hellos. I truthfully had not had a conversation with him until the final days of senior year when he caught my eye. His towering frame climbed to the top of my periphery like a tree gracefully kissing the sky. Sams’s lanky outline confidently planted his heals into the synthetic blades of grass beneath him, prepared to perform. His hair shaggy fell beneath the cusp of his ear lobes in a juvenile bowl cut. It draped across his face, reflecting gold streaks naturally bleached from the sun. In that moment where he stood in front of me on that field in an athletic stance to defend me from the goal, I remember thinking his hair mimicked the shape of a coconut. I could not help but feel the muscles around my cheeks constrict, and I was smiling to myself on that hot summer day.
The condensation leaked from my skin to my shirt, sticking to the small of my back, and clinging onto my breasts restricting my breath. I was breathing hard before I even touched the ball. My weight shifted from the soles of my feet onto my toes as I dashed across the field, tapping the ball delicately with the sweet outer surface of my sneaker. The aglet on my left untied shoelace clinked against the surface of the ball between touches. The distance between us was closing. I traced the circumference of the ball with my right foot, faking my direction with the position of my body, then tapped the ball with my left foot, effortlessly maneuvering around him. My body sizzled with elation as I ran with the wind created from passing his stature. With an open field welcoming my strides, I wound up my dominant foot and forcefully followed through towards the net. As my right foot came down to catch my forward falling weight, the toes of my sneaker landed on my left untied lace, propelling my body forward towards the impending rugburn of turf.
My body glided across the turf like sledding across the snow without the lubricating lack of friction. A stinging sensation possessed my skin from the cap of my knee, across the entire surface area of my shin, down to my ankle. Millions of bee stings stamped across my leg. I sat in a shallow kitty pool of my embarrassment before picking my weight up to address the situation.
My eyes greeted him with delight. Looking for compliments of my athleticism or at least a wave of playful mockery. Rather I was reflected back with concern. His eyes traced down my knobby knees down to my mismatched socks, his tangerine lips curled in cation. “Abby, he muttered. Does it hurt?” No, I laughed back. Until gravity grabbed my chin to my legs gushing in gore. My leg was rubbed raw from friction, just deep enough to draw blood. My left leg looked as if it was flipped off of the side of a grill, plated and prepared like a well done steak. My skin barrier was peeled back, revealing ruby red blood escaping to my ankles in an effort to stain my white air force sneakers. It began to hurt then. When I connected the pain to its abused origin. I remember staring down in shock to the sheer volume of blood my body produced to what felt like nothing more than a scratch seconds prior. But when my eyes met his once more I could not help but brokenly laugh as tears glossed my vision. “Skin heals” I smiled shyly.
Blood began to clot. And the healing began. It would have been fulfilled if we had not ripped it open again and again. The sticky chocolate dipped leather couch in his basement held our imprints for the following weeks of apprehension. We sat apart, absorbing the Survivor tribal music that continued to que episodes until 2am. We were murderers of time to the highest degree. In how we would pause episodes to allow our laughs to echo out our observations. Or rewind challenges to dissect our own strategies as if we were in the game together. Our eyes glued to the TV, yet we were invisibly adhered to the same thoughts of warmth that were feet apart from realization. Rather than make a move, our pores secreted anxious sweat, pasting our skin to the tacky leather couch, a sterile and safe alternative.
My left leg sat up on the coffee table ahead of us, now a ridgid burgundy scab that consumed the normalcy of my leg. Its edges were rough and raised from the surface of my skin. Small leg hairs danced around the perimeter of its scabby edges, too dangerously close to shave away. I'd run my index finger delicately across its body brainlessly as we would watch the show. Sometimes pushing down in suspense, illuminating volcanic cracks of blood once more. The pads of my fingerprints were a faded strawberry stain most nights, when I would drive home realizing I had accidentally abused my skin’s attempt to heal. Time would pass. I could tolerate the slight scream of my skin begging to heal. It could do that on its own. At least I was distracted for the time being.
Our first kiss took place during the Season 20 finale: Heroes vs Villains when he paused and turned to me shyly, a nervous blush aggravating his cheeks. He looked at my leg displayed beneath the fluorescent reflection of the television. It's pretty bad still, he noted. I bobbed my head in gentle agreement. It's been getting better, I assured him, now consciously aware of the body heat of his skin leaking into mine. His elongated fingers kindly addressed the edges of my scab. “It's kinda gross,” he giggled. His fingers cautiously drifted up my knee to my thigh, gently tracing the popped blood vessel from the accident. But here, your skin is so smooth he observed. I have never felt something so soft. Is this okay? He asked as he continued to feel my shaven legs, now onto my quad muscle that visibly peaked through the ripples of my flexed skin. He sank his palm into his touch, now fully petting my leg like a stranger’s dog. His eyes glossed over in awe of the warm flesh that met the anterior of his calloused hands.
Gravity guided my chin towards his, and the connection of flesh was sweet and soft. His breath lingered of licorice and a slight sour of saliva. He guided me to the belly of the sticky couch, the back of my skin velcroed to the surface of the leather cushion. The border between his skin, mine, and the foreign womb of the couch, I became nothing and everything at once. As I embraced another body, my skin no longer felt like it was constricting my bones; rather melting in reverse, releasing any tension and flowing towards the being in front of me. I love the feeling of taking myself off and becoming another. Pain is what brings me back into my body. It wasn't a home I wanted to return to.
I shrieked as I unstuck my leg from the couch, ripping the adhesive of my leaking wound from the leather it had meshed with. Blood began to pool from the pores of my raw flesh to the same unsettling extreme as the original accident. Sam pulled away to address the situation, to which I pulled him back toward my body and told him to ignore it.
While we kissed I could not help but to feel paralyzed by the pain radiating from my leg. As he pressed up against me, his scratchy jeans caressed my wound abrasively. Tearing deeper layers of tissue that stained the cuffs of his denim a cherry-wine complexion. I could not pull away from the ecstasy of his touch, for the reason it felt so fulfilling, and because I knew when it was over I would have to tend to the consequences of my cut.
We began to wear each other's skin on weekdays. Carrying each other's dialect in our tone, and mannerisms wherever we went. Our lexicon built upon the foundation of inside jokes and glares connecting our implicit observations of the outside world. We were inseparable. A new identity combined that felt grander and fuller than I have ever felt alone.
I left for California that summer with an eggplant colored abrasion patching up the reminisce of the wound, and a long distance boyfriend waiting for me across the country. I began that summer without the desire for either. Yet there I was, still attached to the hometown I was committed to leaving forever. It took me 18 years to find love in that town, and the origins were outside of blood. That was the confusing part. I didn't want to let go of being loved even if that destroyed me.
My mini skirts evolved into long flowing midi and maxi silhouettes. It was both a visual bandaid over my scar, as well as my first steps into young adulthood. There were days I felt pretty without him. But they were infrequent. My emotional skin was so thin that a strong enough exhale from a stranger could peel the top layers of cells clean off. A flimsy shell of validation coated the outside of my skin protecting me from the outside world. I had someone who could kiss away the pain. Love me ripped open and bleeding. See me raw and embrace me unconditionally.
I am walking up the incline of campus heading back toward my freshman dorm, when my pocket vibrates the hum of an incoming call. My maternal grandmother’s contact is glaring back at me from the screen. My mother describes her mother with adjectives of resentment and spite. How she was distant and withholding of her love. In separate contexts however from which I cannot differentiate, she says I resemble her in every way. From my dimpled smile to my grudges that seem to ferment like fine wine. These notes were nauseating to hear from my mother, yet I found peace in being compared to my grandma. We got along well. Always have. Yet this call was strange. Unexpected to state it more clearly. My family has a habit of only calling me when they are in need of something that only I could supply. And my grandmother never asked for anything.
She was a deeply introverted woman that resented every soul that presented a threat. She always had a soft spot for me though. Perhaps the way I emotionally rolled over, revealing my submissive underbelly, promising to never hurt her if that promise was reciprocated. We accomplished the courteous exchange of greetings and hellos when she interjected with an acute concern. I have been thinking about that gash on your leg, I noticed it when you visited not too long ago. The best thing you can do is to put sunscreen on it. The sun damage in California is only going to make it more permanent. I ended that call without any intention of applying topical prevention. My heart ached in appreciation for her strange warning. How she cared about my wellbeing. How she cared how I would age with this purple scar tainting my leg. It was around this time when I questioned if long distance was the right decision for us.
How I could never escape the impending effects of holding on. I think of that David Foster Wallace quote, “Everything I ever let go of has claw marks on it” and the bridge of my nose stings with emotion. I questioned who I was holding onto, and for what reason. I came to the conclusion that it was not him.
The sun followed me everywhere, pounding down on my raw skin, absorbing the UV, clinging onto the memories that possessed my leg. Even when my scab has crusted and dried off, the effects of avoidance infected my dermis deeper and deeper each day.
I began sacrificing pain for intimacy with a concerning tolerance. The pain of feeling stuck in a relationship. The pain of wanting to be with a woman. The pain of watching my friends find love that they could hold. I could escape none of these feelings. The cathartic calls and self convincing was enough to hold onto for the time being. He was the love of my life. Someone who has mapped out my mind and body with great precision. That is something to preserve. Even if it hurts doing so. We just had to make it until summer.
And we did. And that felt like enough for the time being.
Our summer skin a shared coat of auburn freckles, perfectly mapped constellations of a sky we fell under each night hopelessly. He lay behind me, his legs encompassing my lower back like a train formation kids do before going down banana colored slides. The length of his fingers tracing the reptilian scales of my shoulders caps, crisp and prepared to shed. From a ridgid edge naturally peeled slightly upward- he carefully grasped its corner as if prepared to turn the page of a book. The dry skin came off effortlessly, a delicate spider web angelically floating off of my shoulder as if it had never been attached at all. With the sheet of skin still in his hand, we giggled at the ghost of freckles that stuck to its surface and simultaneously coexisted on my shoulder.
The curiosity of his fingers returned to my upper back, below the root of my neck. A welcoming opening of flesh presented itself through the same lifted edge as before. He began to slowly rip down its edge, compounded by the force of gravity and his excitement for a second result. The removal excruciatingly stung, the premature skin still attached to my nerves begging to stay. I continued to silently look forward while he finished the removal of the unripened flesh. A final rip rang throughout my skin. He brought the flesh between our gaze to once again examine. The thin flakey origin grew thicker and thicker to a horrifying millimeter in width. He pressed on my back from which the skin had been removed. An irritated red held the imprints of his fingers where they concerningly inquired. “I don't think that one was ready” he murmured under his exhale. I quietly agreed.
As those hot summer months progressed, the glory of embrace had lost its illusion of being an all consuming solution. The sweet caramelized shell of love- sugar coating every interaction- had slowly dissolved over time. Perhaps I outgrew its restraint. Its crunchy exterior flaked off when I realized love could not keep me small. I was left with its melting sugar of guilt sticking to my skin. Constantly feeling unclean and dangerously tacky to anything that was unlucky enough to enter my proximity.
It was not until the fall semester of my sophomore year that I decided to begin the process of pain that is healing. The phone call took place the Tuesday night before my classes began the following morning. Horrible timing on my part. I sank into the lavender duvet cover draped over my twin xL and clicked the contact labeled “sam<3” under my starred contacts to initiate a call. I thought about how I would have to remove him from that list. I would have to delete all of the pictures of him too. Would it still be okay to text his mom?
The edible I took 30 minutes prior to help calm me down in order to address the situation only made my mind spin with haste. 15 mg of some Sativa gummy that was advertised as a fruity flavor, but when chewed tasted like how weed smelled walking on the beach, mixed with the carcinogenic aroma of burning plastic. I didn't believe in the difference between Indica and Sativa but maybe I should have. It sounded like conspiracy-stoner-jargon the more and more it was explained to me. I got high to go numb, and both completed the task. Not that night though. The overspill of emotions leaked through the intentional barrier I had built to protect me. By the time my attention returned to my screen, Sam had been on the call for 30 seconds, barely audible “hello’s” and “are you there's” slipped from the speaker as I watched the timer reach 32, 33, 34, and I waited for the numbers to stop and the conversation to be over.
“Yeah, I'm here” I inserted. Though I really wasn't. Underneath the weed and emotional distress I still really wasn't there. A shell of love. Where my identity was intertwined with being held. My lips moved and tongue flicked in the algorithm communicating the breakup. Confusion accompanied me on the other line. My cracked lips burning from the sting of salty tears. My mouth coated in cotton was slowly quenched by my tongue’s licking and swallowing of the sorrowful fluid. My heart physically ached inside the futile protection of my ribcage. A collapsing weight pressed down on my organs from all angles. He sounded indifferent and distant, unable to encompass the sheer weight of impact this conversation would have on each other's lives. How tomorrow we wouldn't be texting and calling routinely. I hung up the phone that night. Never changing the contact of his name.
We got back together within three days. Apparently calling and texting everyday whilst using the same endearing vocabulary of “Baby” and “I love you” was not enough to create a clear break. Each call and text that once felt like fingertips kindly tracing down my spine were now viscous claws of a wild animal. Nails peeling back skin in four leaking lines, resembling a thumbless trail of fingers. Ending calls with “I love you” felt lovingly charged with revenge, the only way to hold on to each other now.
I believe in the complexity of humans and how we contain multitudes or whatever Walt Whitman said, but it all ultimately boils down to a simple duality. There are two kinds of people in this world. One that can end an animal’s life for the sake of limiting its suffering; and people like me who watch them slowly bleed out in agony. I realize this is not the nicer option. But I am selfish in how I avoid causing pain. So much that I am willing to witness and absorb it all. There is guilt in the empty barrel of a gun, regardless of the intention. I'd plead the suffocating lie of negligence before I'd ever consider responsibility for the final blow. Our relationship layed on the side of the road, antlers tracing the faded painted lines of traffic, begging to be killed. For the suffering to end. To die with dignity. What a beautiful beast it once was. Neither one of us could take responsibility for the carcass. We took its soft breaths as a sign of survival and drove on like nothing occurred.
Things ended for the second time days later, over another heavy call. No contact was enforced. I remained on the side of the road. Just barely breathing.
I remember reading a biological study detailing how foreign DNA from sexual partners will linger for months before being fully recycled by the body. I lay paralyzed by the presence of him all around and inside of me. Science promises that it would take two weeks for the current layer of skin cells to turn over revealing a fresh chance. It had been far more than two weeks since we touched, yet his memories penetrated deeper layers of the skin that would take months perhaps years to erase. My attention wanders toward the shin of my left leg. A foreign continental shape lays mapped in patchy hues of purples and reds. I run my fingertips across its surface. Debatably healed over, and to the blind hand, imperceptibly smooth. It has come to my attention that no one cares about your suffering once it has left the eye. Once there is no graphic and tangible evidence that will turn heads and arise questions of concern. But your body holds secrets within the internal bruising of the heart and broken ribs that may never heal. And as I lay there, feeling it all, I prayed for somebody brave enough to get close to me again. So they could understand this invisible pain too.
The quilt of flesh I pull over by bones before drifting off to sleep is decorated with memories of him. Goosebumps evaporate from my dermis and condensate onto the surface of my skin in little droplets. Slowly dripping down and across the milestones of our love. My fingers trace
the hollows of my collarbones, haunted by the ghost of his warm lips. The heart tattooed on my sternum that he would eskimo kiss with his large nose mirroring his Italian ancestors' descent. My finger drifts around the circumference of my belly button, where he would hypnotically swirl around, as our bodies lie naked in a pool of exhaust. Down to my inner thighs where he mistook my stretch marks for self harm. I never corrected him on the account; it spared me from other stories I did not wish to tell. I'm not sure he truly ever knew me. I'm not sure how anyone really could. But he embraced me unconditionally in a way nothing else mattered. Except when it did. Feel me up, rip apart my ribcage and sort through my organs just to uncover more ambiguous red. Nothing can truly communicate the isolation that wrapped me up in fleshy tones of pink. But God it felt so good to be touched. It came the closest I would be to feeling understood.
