I was once a very small person. I fit into the space of a breath. I never spoke because I thought no one would hear me. I rarely left the house. Never looked-at closely. Especially not gently. I hated the sight of my own naked body. I hated the scars on my back.
          Not all of them were imaginary.
          I thought often of running away. When I drove anywhere on the highway I thought it would be so easy to just keep going. It would be easy to change my name. Easier to drive off a bridge or headfirst into a Mack Truck.
          I imagined tearing myself open to look inside, dig around for the coldest, hardest, pulsing mass and swallow it whole. Without chewing. I wanted to take it like a pill and let it dissolve inside me. Or smuggle it across the border—any border—and shit it out in the street.
          I wanted to stitch myself shut.
          Do not Enter. Closed Indefinitely for Repairs.

©2008 Dr. Lacy M. Johnson All Rights Reserved.