Redux

Pieces of my crusty feet keep falling off. It’s disgusting.

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.