For all the lust we have for mansions, the small sleeping bag will remain unrivalled as camping gear.
A mansion gives nothing but space for your own body to run away from you.
All the warmth that our bodies pound into our flesh, tends to find the pockets of empty cloth and the holes between the teeth of the zipper.
I’ve never known a large sleeping bag to be any more rewarding than my skin (skin being the smallest blanket of peach fuzz, most unrewarding)
I’ve encountered the sleepless nights of mosquito bites and growing pains and itchy wool pyjamas.
So understandably, I’ve always said that upon being forced to forgo a sense it would be touch.
I’ve always said that.
despite my being wrong
despite all the pleasures that I’ve refused to feel.
As a child, I never refused touch.
As a child, safety is something you gnaw off other’s bones. As long as someone offers themself to you, you can roll them like baking dough into something thin enough that you could eat for days.
Now, as someone more aged and less developed, safety is feasting on your own fingernails so you don’t endanger yourself with interdependence.
All the growing I’ve encountered has only caused my skin not to fit quite right.
It rubs in the wrong places, sags in others, and recoils from the slightest touch
It’s not that I don’t want to feel.
My skin just seemed to miscalculate and my nerves stumble constantly because of their disproportion.
I have tried to snip at my skin until it fits but it never does.
My continuous battle against my flesh has led to my current lack in eloquence.
Its distraction has served as a middle finger towards any other senses that I should rely on.
So, I end up throwing a knife at my sketchbook because that’s the closest thing to art that my clumsy skin and I can muster.
I don’t hear wind chimes over winter wind on my cheeks
I don’t see sunsets over the sunburn on my skin
I don’t taste grandmas soup over the burn on my tongue
The blunderous insight my skin relays to me only leaves any art I make rather abrasive.
As a child, my skin didn’t fit.
Now, it still doesn’t.
So I wonder
Maybe this is just how it’s supposed to be
Maybe the sleeping bag only comes in extra large and my blanket is cold and the mosquito bites will forever keep me awake and every sweater I own is made of wool.
It seems that lately that my senses are trying to tell me how the light hits ice rather than keeping me warm
My skin is clumsy and scarred and tender
So am I
So let that be the vice that swallows me
Because, lately, my other senses are too worried about the world around me
Lately, they sneak out of my sleeping bag nightly
Trying to find something better than this fucking ugly skin burrito
But my skin just wraps me up and swallows me whole
I don’t care how much it hurts
I just need to feel something without it slipping away
You cannot read my flesh like poetry, hear it like music, or taste it without gagging so I can’t quite fit it in my sketchbook.
But, god, do I want to.
For all I lack in eloquence, my skin still packs a punch
It’s unrivalled by the sleeping bag.
I wouldn’t sell it on the black market if I could
Of course, depending on the amount of money I'm being offered because a skinless millionaire is probably more desirable tha a fully skinned bum.