Writing for my sanity

I have unshaved legs. I wish I had a penis. I want to grow a mustache, shave my beard, have a drink with the guys. 

I have unshaved legs. I have a vagina. I like to crochet, make cute outfits, get all dolled up with my girlfriends.

I have unshaved legs. I talk about my feelings. I go to therapy. I take my meds, write my journals, keep things to myself.

I have unshaved legs. I have been raped. I have heard them out, been disgusted, left them in the dust.

I have unshaved legs. I live in cycles. I have withered, replenished, perished again under the spotlights.

            4152 W Chestnut Ave was an apartment building, but he already knew whom to call. The faint glow of a button illuminated the laminated label below; Unit 3, Orion. Pressing it, he waited for their voice. The speaker box crackled, then a pleasant voice echoed through. “May I have your name?” “Yoon Tae-min.” A loud buzz, followed by a quick click of the wrought iron door was all that followed. He cautiously opened the door, sweeping his eyes on his surroundings briefly before heading to Unit 3. Musty wallpaper lined the hallway, while dark stains littered the shag carpeting. Reaching his destination, he took hold of the large wolf knocker on the door. He raised the knocker and rapped twice. Stepping away from the door, a sense of foreboding overcame him that he could not explain to himself. He’d been in worse situations before, much less prepared than he was now. Yet, his body screamed at him to leave this place. Before he could answer the call, the door opened.

The sky shifted from gray to lighter gray as the sun rose higher. Five cigarettes later, and he sluggishly prepared to brace the day. His benefactor requested his presence tonight, and he dare not miss her appointment again. He could have used a real smoke before seeing her, but he wasn’t ready for that yet. He crept slowly to the bathroom, dreading what was to come. Drawing closely to the mirror, the tattered gauze wrapped round his head came into full view. Sweeping his dark bangs off the bandage, he stared for a moment at the deep red emanating from his forehead. Rewrapping his wounds was taking less and less time. This was not a skill he was prepared to learn, but learned it he had.

He sat in the corner of his bedroom window, peering listlessly out through the gray sky. Only one flight off the ground, not quite far enough. He’d thought about this a thousand times before, about how the door to the roof was always unlocked during the day, about how there weren’t any working security cameras up there, about how there wouldn’t be anyone to miss him if he just did what was necessary. Standing to shake a cigarette out of his back pocket, he turned to grab the lighter close by, just on the nightstand. It was blue, her favorite color. They said memories fade with time, hers only ever seemed to get clearer. Escaping her would be like trying to escape himself at this point. He mulled over these thoughts as he flicked the lighter on and brought it up to the cigarette. Taking a long drag, he blew the smoke through the window and glanced back at his abode. Dirty clothes lined the little bed, favored items remaining on top. Potato chips and ice cream containers clogged up the nightstand, while the pill bottles spilled their contents across the room. “Everything’s in order,” he cracked humorlessly.