to keep & be kept

“And I would hide my face in you and you would hide your face in me, and nobody would ever see us any more.”

I don’t want to look dead, but what I see in the mirror dismays me. I look dead. My skin is pale—not pale as fine china, pale as whiteness, or pale as Snow White, but pallid as a drowned body or patient in the intensive care unit in desperate need of a blood transfusion, or my own undead self hunting me down. Bags hang from my eyes, and my mouth is dry. In the cabinet is some blood-red lipstick, which I draw across my lips. I dab my fingers in the pigment, then blend it into my cheeks to incorporate the color into my complexion. I want to look ruddy, alive and well. When I put on makeup, I want it to look like I’m alive.

But a diagnosis will dog you. It will track your steps and follow you, panting, into the night.

Maybe I was using him to unhook me from myself. Letting him untether me a little. Letting him wind me out.