nightlife

why am i an emotionally suffering but self-centered and laughably angsty 20th century dudebro writer except that im a lesbian woman and i chug coffee instead of alcohol and i am vaguely self-aware

sitting in a starbucks, a large cup of mint tea steeping in front of me, it was warm having come in from the october city air and i slid up the sleeves of my shirt and 'disenchanted' was playing in my ears and a cute, studious girl was next to me and suddenly for the first time i was ashamed of the scars on my forearms. i am ashamed of much more than those inconsequential markings; they are no more than outward manifestations of my mind's turbulence, no more troubling than a birthmark in their naturalness and their belonging on my skin, nothing but a reminiscence even though the deepest one, the one that itches madly at times and that turns purple when i am cold, was made just about four months ago. they have never evoked shame, but at this moment they did, and for once in my life the feeling of ownership which sometimes bordered on pride dissipated and i almost desired to erase them. i almost felt disconnected from that which had caused them, almost felt able to detach myself - not by definition: three hours ago i raised my aching head from the crook of my elbow and took an ugly breath, two hours ago i was so exhausted that i wanted to die simply for the rest it would bring, one hour ago i walked down the street looking around like a child and reminding myself what it felt like to truly breathe. the detachment was not born out of actual removal but out of the realization that a human being can define itself by whatever aspect of its existence it chooses; the ringing of the phrase 'this is not who i am.' 

fear came at this thought, fear so deep a familiar tremor jolted ephemerally through my head. i did not have to define myself by my disorders. it was true that i did not want to. it was true that i considered myself more. but the hitch, the stumbling block, the abyss, was that there was nothing more. racking my brains i could not summon a trait worthy of defining status that was independent from my hurts and doubts and shortcomings and imbalances.

i find meaning in the markings made on my skin, in my vicious internal cycles, in my toxic thoughts, in my bitter words, in my semi-hysterical laugh and in the desperation with which my feet pound the pavement and in the nightly spasms in my neck that preface deep sudden sleep. i find meaning in the razor, i find meaning in the taste of bile, and my identity is inextricably linked to widened eyes and shaking hands and the vision of a cold ocean beneath a tall cliff and the sneer of chapped lips belonging to someone who is far too proud to let despair hold them for long enough to take effect. this is who i am, regrettably, as far as i can tell. of course i let these things define me because there is nothing left to define myself by. it has consumed me, some would say, but that image does not seem right, and i have always hated platitudes. but the detachment is an illusion.