Skin

XO TOUR Llif3 - Lil Uzi Vert

This is my home.

Here I reside, in my pastel-colored hellhole.

The yellowing wallpaper houses tinges of pink, a shell of its former self. Almost like me.

Naked on the floor, I cradle my head, rocking back and forth. The faded counter stares back at me, casting shadows on the void surrounding me. Chaos grows, feeding off of itself, bursting through the cracks in my skull. My mind is but a membrane, enclosing a sea of rage.

In the beginning, we were all fetal. It was a time when one could care not, and one could let go of all worries. I feverishly writhe and reach for that state of bliss, curling myself into a ball, as I once was before the world took me into its horrors.

Staring into the dusty, blurred mirror, a gaunt face stares back from beyond the veil. A sallow, cadaverous figure locking into my eyes, as I stare into his (or its? I do not know). They are empty, just like the soul residing in that realm.

I look at my naked body. My emaciated self is a silhouette of my former self, a shadow puppet thrown around by forces beyond my control. My skin is stretched tight around me like a blanket around a scared child. My smooth abdominal muscles clench as I stare into the eyes of the man in front of me. My legs quiver and shake in fear of what I've become. I see the white marks on my chest from me trying to dig my nails beneath the surface, 

My mind sounds like static noise, a constant buzzing, a chaos feeding upon itself. Chaos brings chaos brings chaos. All is disorder; the center does not hold. Like ancient monsters from the depths of a bottomless sea, the chaos surfaces, tearing at the barrier of my mind, aching to burst out. Rage, the primal, bestial predator of the id; sorrow, the exiled leviathan from the root of the consciousness; and pain, the formless, shapeless personification of my penance from the deep; all surface and beat against the wall keeping my madness at bay.

The peeling, white paint stabs at the corners of my sanity, tearing away at the seams. I coil tighter into my little ball, trying to find a nook to explore my own sanity. I am scared, I am terrified, I am not in control anymore. What I feel is not what I know. It is foreign, it hurts, the pain. I hate it, but I must have it at the same time. The pain is my penance for all my sins. For all the hurt I have caused, I must suffer as well. But I’m scared. I’m losing control. I don’t understand myself, I don’t understand the world, I don’t understand other people, I don’t get it. I don’t understand what is happening. The peeling wallpapers takes the form of cruel, sharp implements of hurt and pain; the patterns take the shape of the images of my pain.

“I’ve got out at last…, in spite of you and Jane?” No, Ms. Gilman, I’m not out.

Here, I am trapped.

Here, I reside, in my pastel-colored hellhole.

This is my home.