I walked on the beach like that, once.
At least, one time of which there is photographic evidence.
All of these people with their shining sand and their long legs practically dangling their perfect feet, skin that’s like bronze except it looks warmer, like if you trapped heat in the shapes of girls; the hairs on their heads come together like a glowing swirl of oil paint, designed to reproduce the wind or the sea or something else you can’t conceive or shut up about. That’s all there is.
My body doesn’t produce freckles.
In the early morning I awaken six or seven times because I know I’ve set at least that many alarms to fend off or (probably) exacerbate my paranoia. Finally, I drag my possible legs out of bed for keeps.
The morning is abbreviated because I’ve let it become that way, but still I give the self-that-is-mine in the mirror a moment of contemplation about my choice to wear a cheetah print bra with zebra print underpants.
Is that okay?
It doesn’t bear thinking about. I move on. A day of going and being and returning and being. There are no cheetahs here, even sunbeams are rare. Sometimes I think the house-cat looks full of stars, when the light catches the dust motes caught in her fur.
But then again, what do I know. My underwear’s probably been chasing itself around all day.