︎︎Goo Body ︎︎Goo Body︎︎Goo Body ︎︎Goo Body
Some are built with an exoskeleton, a protection and fearlessness of the everyday. Gifted with the ability to walk around at night, have sleepovers, and watch scary movies unscathed. Some are left without, covered only in a film so thin it can be punctured with the slightest nudge.
It didn’t take much for me to burst. I beg, someone send me to The Shyness Clinic, for I have not been able to go to school one time without an overwhelming amount of waterworks spilling onto the thigh of my mother, small arms interlocked around her leg. I cover her jeans with snot and goo. Please don’t leave me here or else I will stop breathing in protest. If you let go of it I will melt into a puddle, my flimsy skin can not bear the weight of judgment from the seeming strangers in the classroom. Take me home with you, hold me in your hand so I don’t have to go through this embarrassing little routine again and again and again. Homeschool me God dammit, I can’t show my face there. I left goo all over the outside of the 1st grade classroom, do you know what they’ll think of me? They all know I can be punctured without the hand of my mother. They know that I can’t do sleepovers and that I don’t speak louder than a whisper. How embarrassing!!!!!
Chronic overthinking remains undefined at the age of 7. All I can explain to the healer my mother paid to talk to me is that I hear a string section when I feel it has gotten too late to fall asleep. It blares as my body is in a swarm of passing time. Fading in and exponentiating I don’t do my homework immediately upon returning from school. Echoes as I try to sleep without the consistent touch of my mothers hand on my back. An orchestra is played in conjunction with the increase of heart rate, shivering, cold sweats, and pool of tears on my rounded cheeks. With each task others with an exoskeleton complete with ease I am stopped by a section of strings and goo leaking from my skin. I am paralyzed.
I am safe, I am safe, I am safe.
I tell myself this because they told me too but that doesn’t mean that I believe it. Why should I? They can see how thin my skin is, laughing at me as I cry too much. I am sheer and silk and soft. I am not meant to be at school. I meant to exist at home in good company. Away from the poking and prodding from eyes that makes me feel see through. Let me take some time to drink milk. Give my exoskeleton time to grow. Let me face the world with armor. Please protect the faint of heart.
Parasocial solutions to airplane anxiety ︎ (dear Liz, dear Charli)
Tethered between the seemingly magic phenomena that is flying and the dread of how fast you feel you could fall into the ground.
My brother tells me I have nothing to be worried about, despite what the pilot describes as a storm brewing off the coast of south florida. I sit alone in the exit row, walking the suspension bridge between my two polarized headspaces I exist in while flying. I seek comfort in those around me. Mouths open, sleeping leaned up against the window, no fear from what I can see.
There is an odd sense of comfort I find in imagining people doing the things that I do. A parasocial solution I have found for myself to complete daily tasks that seem, at times, impossible. Charli must fly all the time and I know she would make it look easy, effortless if you will. I imagine her sleeping. I imagine her drinking champagne. I picture my brother in aviation school and how he flys in the afternoons on his own volition. I picture a plane in jello as a girl on TikTok explains to me the pressure of air and why I should never be worried of falling out of the sky. I see green jello jiggling with a jelly bean inside, I am the jelly bean jiggling but not falling, despite the vision of plummeting being so clear and still so possible. I'm not sure if learning more about the subject would make me feel better or worse. I want to trust my brother and jello girl, as they seem fairly informed, but the vividness of dreams outweighs reality from time to time. I'll stick to picturing Charli XCX peacefully resting and posted in a plane, thousands of feet in the air as I jiggle like the jelly bean. We go up, we go down. If she can do it so effortlessly, Why Can’t I?
I find comfort in the conspiracy that maybe I'm not in the air at all. Like how they slip through a plastic tube in Now You See Me and like magic, trick someone into thinking they were on a plane while they never left the ground. Maybe I am just in a plane simulator just looking at a loop of greenery and tiny model houses. Maybe every place I've ever been was made just for me. This is likely a projection of my own individuality complex in thinking everything is my own. I’m thinking artists made their work for me, musicians record their albums with only one girl in mind. No way you are listening to Liz Phair like I do. Jealousy, jealousy. Liz Phair flies into Chicago at night and pictures herself in a Galaxy 500 video. I fly into marsh harbor picturing Liz Phair picturing herself in that video and somehow I am safer. A way of coping and seeking comfort in solidarity of experiences. With my hands propped equally between arm rests, I pray. Dear Liz, dear Charli.
My brother tells me I have nothing to be worried about, despite what the pilot describes as a storm brewing off the coast of south florida. I sit alone in the exit row, walking the suspension bridge between my two polarized headspaces I exist in while flying. I seek comfort in those around me. Mouths open, sleeping leaned up against the window, no fear from what I can see.
There is an odd sense of comfort I find in imagining people doing the things that I do. A parasocial solution I have found for myself to complete daily tasks that seem, at times, impossible. Charli must fly all the time and I know she would make it look easy, effortless if you will. I imagine her sleeping. I imagine her drinking champagne. I picture my brother in aviation school and how he flys in the afternoons on his own volition. I picture a plane in jello as a girl on TikTok explains to me the pressure of air and why I should never be worried of falling out of the sky. I see green jello jiggling with a jelly bean inside, I am the jelly bean jiggling but not falling, despite the vision of plummeting being so clear and still so possible. I'm not sure if learning more about the subject would make me feel better or worse. I want to trust my brother and jello girl, as they seem fairly informed, but the vividness of dreams outweighs reality from time to time. I'll stick to picturing Charli XCX peacefully resting and posted in a plane, thousands of feet in the air as I jiggle like the jelly bean. We go up, we go down. If she can do it so effortlessly, Why Can’t I?
I find comfort in the conspiracy that maybe I'm not in the air at all. Like how they slip through a plastic tube in Now You See Me and like magic, trick someone into thinking they were on a plane while they never left the ground. Maybe I am just in a plane simulator just looking at a loop of greenery and tiny model houses. Maybe every place I've ever been was made just for me. This is likely a projection of my own individuality complex in thinking everything is my own. I’m thinking artists made their work for me, musicians record their albums with only one girl in mind. No way you are listening to Liz Phair like I do. Jealousy, jealousy. Liz Phair flies into Chicago at night and pictures herself in a Galaxy 500 video. I fly into marsh harbor picturing Liz Phair picturing herself in that video and somehow I am safer. A way of coping and seeking comfort in solidarity of experiences. With my hands propped equally between arm rests, I pray. Dear Liz, dear Charli.
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the effect of “brat summer” on ig baddie “mean girls”
I wish I was so small ︎ I wish I was so small ︎ I wish I was so small ︎ I wish I was so small ︎
I wish I was so small. I could fit into your pocket and listen to all of the conversations you tell back to me first hand. Being small would save lots of things. I wouldn’t have to pay to go on an airplane. I would walk in the shadow of your shoe and no one would see. Or I could be shot out of a tiny canon and fly with a parachute across a few states and then ride in a stranger's car that was heading your way. I was told to go west, but all I want to do is go east! They would talk about regular things and get gas and gossip and pass the time perfectly. I would tell it back to you and you would be so happy to see me. Then I could be everywhere and with you, as I was suppose to be.
leftovers (waiting room) ︎︎︎︎︎︎ leftovers (waiting room) ︎︎︎︎︎︎ LEFTOVERS (WAITING ROOM) ︎︎︎︎︎︎
Even after it was said and done, you drop off a bag of denim at my door,
full of the pairs you once praised, now tossed out and cycled through. You are on a constant search for the best fit, the perfect pant. They look nice, I say, though they mostly look the same to me. You did always have good taste, this is undeniable. So when you ask me if I would like any of your leftovers, I say yes. It is sweet to me, holding on to your leftovers. This clothing, christened with your sweat and wear, once held close, all belongs to me now, and it is my job to keep it safe.
I wash your jeans inside out in cold water.
A waist once bunched and held up tightly by your belt now sits low on my hips. Frayed edges drag at my ankles, torn and ripped from the roughness of sandpaper. I must preserve the way this fits using a cold wash cycle, not to disrupt the state you left them in. I am responsible for postponing the decay of fibers that you have woven yourself into. The same fibers I now walk in. The same fibers in the washer, spinning, spinning, spinning. I remember you telling me you are the most beautiful in the morning each day as I dress. The spinning makes me dizzy. You remind me of a lot of things.
I lay your jeans flat to dry.
Staring at damp fabric, I wait. I have gone to lengths to care for reminders you have burdened me with, going so far as to preserve them. Here lies a folded up stack of jeans I must now refrain from wearing. I watch them decay. Your leftovers rot in my closet, so I move them to the garage. Out of sight out and occasionally out of mind. But, I think of you when I make indirect eye contact with the sun and when the sky is clear but cool enough to wear a sweater.
And I'm not looking forward to following through, but it's better than always running back into you.
The pile ages, now a relic of my avoidance. Wrinkling and slouching in the corner. Serving as a reminder that I need to take care of a few things. What’s the rush? I am just getting my things in order. Pass the time till the time is right, pass the time till the time is right. I recite this to myself like a prayer. Passing the time is an excuse I use in order to keep waiting. An excuse to continue letting things rot. I must have something better to do.
full of the pairs you once praised, now tossed out and cycled through. You are on a constant search for the best fit, the perfect pant. They look nice, I say, though they mostly look the same to me. You did always have good taste, this is undeniable. So when you ask me if I would like any of your leftovers, I say yes. It is sweet to me, holding on to your leftovers. This clothing, christened with your sweat and wear, once held close, all belongs to me now, and it is my job to keep it safe.
I wash your jeans inside out in cold water.
A waist once bunched and held up tightly by your belt now sits low on my hips. Frayed edges drag at my ankles, torn and ripped from the roughness of sandpaper. I must preserve the way this fits using a cold wash cycle, not to disrupt the state you left them in. I am responsible for postponing the decay of fibers that you have woven yourself into. The same fibers I now walk in. The same fibers in the washer, spinning, spinning, spinning. I remember you telling me you are the most beautiful in the morning each day as I dress. The spinning makes me dizzy. You remind me of a lot of things.
I lay your jeans flat to dry.
Staring at damp fabric, I wait. I have gone to lengths to care for reminders you have burdened me with, going so far as to preserve them. Here lies a folded up stack of jeans I must now refrain from wearing. I watch them decay. Your leftovers rot in my closet, so I move them to the garage. Out of sight out and occasionally out of mind. But, I think of you when I make indirect eye contact with the sun and when the sky is clear but cool enough to wear a sweater.
And I'm not looking forward to following through, but it's better than always running back into you.
The pile ages, now a relic of my avoidance. Wrinkling and slouching in the corner. Serving as a reminder that I need to take care of a few things. What’s the rush? I am just getting my things in order. Pass the time till the time is right, pass the time till the time is right. I recite this to myself like a prayer. Passing the time is an excuse I use in order to keep waiting. An excuse to continue letting things rot. I must have something better to do.
︎Skin glow ︎︎︎ Skin glow ︎︎︎ Skin glow ︎︎︎ Skin glow ︎︎︎︎
a bug, a brain dollhouse.
You hang out in my head so often. Crawling through hallways to turn on the lights in every room.
The brightness of florescence hits the corners and burns my insides.
I’d never seen Skin
glow.
And now I,
stare at the sun,
stare at the insides of tin cans,
stare at the light till it blurs,
Glow.
I love when you tell the same stories twice,
and I only want you all of the time.
︎︎︎︎︎︎︎︎︎
www.sincerelyscatterbrained.com (circa 2020)
