The first time anything came out of my nose, I was laughing.  I don’t remember what I was laughing about but I remember the feeling. Feeling scared and then repulsed by the grotesque display of gunky chocolate and snot smeared on my chicken nuggets. Giggled to hide it.  Giggled to show my friends it didn’t bother me that I created something so obscene. That I wouldn’t get new food, choosing to eat the mushy mess or eat nothing at all. Wondering if this was something that would become consistent with laughter and fluid.   

All my life I have been looked at; whispered about.  Mostly it’s just the eyes. The long long gazes that seem to hang for days, imprint on my face, carry into each other, as though they write themselves all over my chest, etching words and names into my flesh.  

I don’t mind the eyes until they look a different way: with disdain and pity.  The pity eyes are my least favorite. Officers and lawyers, doctors and parents, hush hush hush… we’re so sorry, sweetie.  Broken and bruised she must be.  Institutionalized and damaged she is.  Illness and death await her, prey on her, eat her, devour her.  

So the chocolate milk mess seems to become more than just temporary.

//

Touch me.

Oh, no, surely we wouldn’t do that, my dear.  A death deposit you are, my love.

Speak for me.

But your voice is much too loud.  You are much too scary. Much too different.  Surely you wouldn’t want us to speak on your behalf.  We don’t know you.

Love me.

Oh but we mustn’t…  But we do.  Can’t you see?  We do so very much.