shed so many skins

c}{imps 8 my ears

wish I still had those shirts. People I’d just met would be staring at my chest for some time, a creeping feeling of unwell shadowing their faces, and they would ask, what’s on your shirt. Being able to tell them was likely the highlight of any given day that year.

Despite the undisputed fact, court records indicate, that my actions demonstrated a disregard for her well-being, emotionally, physically, spiritually, she always acted romantically toward me. I think that her parents had modeled some fairly enmeshed and entangled relationship ethics for her, and she was doing what she saw them do, stick together no matter what the other one did. And she loved me. Unconditionally. She made me a rabbit suit.

It was bright pink and when stuffed with pillows it took on a presence which could not be anticipated. The color reminded me of wearing a pink tank top in Missouri to a Walmart. There was no mask, rather the mask was my face, which was a mask with or without the suit, and actually felt more authentic with the suit on. I only wore it once when we were married, stuffing it in my mother’s attic after our divorce, which she conceded too, but did not ask for nor want. I tore through her life and the only thing that probably saved either of us from that epoch was our youth combined with our resilience to trauma. We kind of thrived on it.

The rabbit suit came out of the attic when I got sober. I remembered it. It was memorable. I was drawn to it. So, I had walked through all these portals and had shed so many skins, I