Having an inflammatory skin disease since toddlerhood does something subtle to the way a person learns their body. Being a fat teenager also adds to this but this isn’t what this post is about. Anyways, in time, I have learned and internalized how to hide. I don’t want to lay my traumas out in detail but my skin condition was triggered due to some stress.
Revisiting my old poems, I’ve noticed that I keep referring to this skin condition through the image of holes. When my scalp itches, it feels deeper, as if something is moving underneath, as if worms are restlessly circling inside the holes in my body. I think I grew accustomed to experiencing things physically that weren’t there, to the point where writing about them now feels almost inevitable. On my arms and legs, the sensation is different. There it feels like smoldering, like skin slowly overheating, darkening, almost carbonizing from the inside out. Stress triggers my flare-ups, and stress heats the body, so the logic makes sense to me even if the imagery sounds excessive when spoken aloud.
Sometimes I wonder if the worms and holes belong to the same place as death, or illness, or decay; if fire belongs to the same place as sin, shame, or despair, or if they are simply my brain’s way of giving shape to chronic discomfort. Like, why don’t I feel worms all over my body? It’s funny.
My other piece from Static might make you want to read more.
The pic is from here.
