with a meanness

I have accidentally burned myself four times since January. I cannot iron a shirt without grazing some flesh. I cannot warm a tortilla with out scorching a finger. or microwave a cup of water without a third degree steam burn. And all of the marks have remained. I guess, my skin hasn't been up to repair. Perhaps it has begun to lose its youth or perhaps its lost the will to sustain. A prick, a scratch, a burn - these things - would have healed in days. If I wanted to produce harm, an effect, or a memory, I would have to tear, lean hard, or repeat. repeat. But now, today, if I allow a cat to jump from my arms or I turn the iron the wrong way, I am left red. If I pick at a mark on my face, it is left dark. I work under florescent lights and it makes me tired, it makes my skin work harder. I feel oily. I feel tired. And this is all a reflection.

My words have left marks just as easily. Today a girl told me that all Robert wanted was an apology; that he said, I knew I had crossed the line, that I had been mean. I told her that I was truthful and mean and that they are always the same. He knew that. Amy said that meanness was an easy excuse for people who don't take care of their own shit. I love Amy because she is mean too and I always think she is right. Amy might even have the same skin as me. I think we should never lend money to each other or live in the same house. I see Amy sometimes and she is tired. Being mean makes us tired. I am tired and like my skin, I have given up being nice. I have given up lying to make people feel better.