TALES OF AN ORANGEPEELER
an archive of pleasures, wounds, sublimations
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Crunch Time. I can feel the hours gnashing my bones between their teeth. I try to remember to keep my shoulders out of my ears, to unclench my jaw, to not knot my face while concentrating. I tell myself: I'm a lit candle, melting, softening, into a new shape, as the material of my flesh dissipates joyfully into a bright and wavering memory of being.