I have my softer moments. Times when I am not barbed, not clad in black and not tottering about in pointy-toed high heeled shoes.
Times when I am pulled so tautly in every direction I feel my substance thin to a sugar-spun translucence. I stand at the window and hold up a hand to the sun and gaze at the red glow of capillaries illuminated, my blood pulsing still, proving I am not yet as other-worldly as I feel. I am still a solid mass, I still cast a shadow where I walk.
How can someone who takes up this much space in the world simultaneously feel so insubstantial? Is it just my fancy that pain and problems are slowly eroding me or am I disappearing up my own most substantial and earthly backside in an agony of self-indulgent angst?
How can I be this gothy while wearing pink?