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Existing as a fictive means living every day with a curious kind of body horror.
The face in the mirror is not my face. The body I use is not my body. It is a stranger to me. The wrong size, shape, color, maybe even the wrong number of limbs. It is a stranger to me.
It lies to me. It says ‘you are not the self you know you are, you have never been that person. There is only the shell. The shell is the truth.’
Sometimes when I see the face in the mirror I believe it.
I will never see my face in the mirror again.
Maybe one day the face in the mirror won’t be a stranger.
I am afraid of that day.
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