I’ve been aching for skin for some time now. It’s in my dreams, my daydreams, everywhere I look. It’s a kind of tepid pain, a longing, a long-distance call to a promise of a fleeting touch.
I’ve suddenly noticed though that I haven’t been paying much attention to myself lately. I’m not fit. I can’t get undressed. I’m not focused. I’m too all over the place, trying to be healthy without having a single clue of what that is, arm-wrestling with whatever that idea — ideal — means to the world and to me. I’m missing too many pieces to be good enough — impressive enough — at anything. And I don’t just want to be good enough at something. I want to be whole- some. I want to be perfect ‘cause in my mind that’s the only way I’m worthy of getting my hands on that skin — on any skin.