I don’t think it’s disgusting. I think it’s beautiful.
It reminds me of the days my hair fell out, strand by strand, or by the handful in the shower. I remember the afternoon I lost my eyelashes, and the friends who held my hands while it was happening. I remember how my skin came off, the powdery residue that followed me for over a year. I remember my lips leaving an imprint of themselves on every glass and mug of tea.
This is different.
That was disintegration.
This is emergence.