No 2: PHANTOM PAINS

PHOTO BY BRIDGET GARNER

IZZY STER

on dissociation

I used to spend hours looking into the mirror, searching for meaning in once deep, blue pools. They are stagnant yet reflect a raging ocean. I don’t think they are blue anymore, more of a soft grey, but I haven’t checked for a while. I stretch my fingers, clenching and unclenching, until I feel sick. They are reminiscent of a porcelain doll’s, they mean nothing to me. My knuckles fade into blobs and I grasp them, beg them to take shape again. Now I know how Picasso’s subjects feel: incandescently incomplete. 

I go through the motions of life: I make my bed to feel productive and eat something so I can physically feel full. My body remains draped in colorful threads. Words seem to limp out of my mouth, empty wit exits despite my protests. I checked the mirror today. The face staring back at me is pale, the roses that once bloomed on my face have died with winter’s arrival. 

Some days I touch the stars, my fingers clasp desperately onto constellations and planets. I rearrange them. Orion’s shield gifted to Ursa Minor. Saturn’s rings to Venus. I watch an empty shell make my bed, eat my meals, and check the mirror. Other days, I go to the beach and I feel the sand on my feet, allow myself to sink deeper into it until I’ve dissolved into the ocean. I swim in the sunsets painted for me. The moon enjoys my watery smiles. 

Longing, that’s what I am often subjected to. I wish I knew what my backbone felt like, how it feels to experience my nerves talking to each other. Oh, to hug my bones a little tighter. Yet, what’s the point in longing for something that was never there?