Portrait of an Identity Crisis, on the Borderline Alexis Ma
—the intersection where attachment, vacancy, & splitting collide
i. metastatic error & reboot The soft, blue-washed scene of a.m. is the first thing that greets me on a Friday morning. My stomach rolls my body into consciousness, the unwanted hangover making its presence known. It feels as though a sizable brain tumor has grown overnight; a cluster of metastasized abnormality that rages like drumming metalcore syncopation against my temple, firework finale that bursts above my brow as I sit upright. With the utmost gentleness, I press two fingers to the pissed-off thing; not a tumor, just a product of my own negligence and unchecked stupidity. This is not the first time something like this has happened. I know it won’t be the last time either. ii. maestra of seduction There is a kaleidoscope of butterflies beating against my bones. It’s the way Boy smooths his palms over the planes of my body, settles his grip on the hip that meshes so nicely, so perfectly with his own. My stomach somersaults every time I catch his half-hooded gaze, the one that lingers on my face longer than it should. “You don’t need to be nervous,” Boy says. Which is laughable since his voice is the one that’s trembling (it’s clear he’s far from experienced; either that, or I intim50
idate him). “We can take it slow, if you want.” We don’t have to—we really don’t. There is a pregnant pause, a question hanging in the air that I would rather die before answering. Mainly because I’ve answered it more times than I’d care to admit, and saying anything would be a dead giveaway. Yet somehow, I can’t deny the spasmodic fluttering of exhilaration that arrives with the simple press of Boy’s lips to my forehead; I don’t want to fall in love with you. But Boy is waiting, won’t budge an inch even if the stillness of the room screams for him to do so. The only things progressing here are the hands on the clock shoving time forward another minute, then two. Out of everything, the gentle crescendo of midnight rain against the window demands my attention. We are stuck inside the pane, but I’m the only one counting raindrops trickling down the glass, caught wondering is there no end to this weather? I eventually snap into the jigsaw of Boy. Effortless. I force myself to close my eyes and pretend that I fit with absolute precision. The notion of belonging to myself, and being okay with it, is terrifying. I’d rather think—no—believe that my purpose is to fill a void. That way, I can evade the vertiginous spells in which I am sure to be alone and without meaning.
