Mandibles

I woke up with certainty that something had not become my own. My arms were not my own. My legs were not my own. My body lay heavy on the sheets; I could not feel them. My arms felt as if they had been disassembled and rearranged a thousand times by things that were not me. Crawling. Flying. Biting. Nails biting my fingers. No blood. Tools are not on my skin. I needed a cigarette. Tiny pressures built up under my skin. They were not on me. They were controlling me. I did not open my mouth to alter it. The ceiling above my bed seemed further away, as if the room were accommodating my size. There was lethargy and weary. I needed to get to work. They needed my assistance. They spoke without words. They Spoke instructions. “Be still. Lift up. Lay down. Crawl. Light too bright. Close curtains.” I shot up and slammed the curtains shut and dropped to the floor like it was the only action I had in mind. This felt rehearsed. I really had not become me. Tight. Loose. Guiding. Rehearse. No. Not me. I knew I had to go to work. It was needed. The bugs wrapped themselves in long sleeves and became restless in the dark. They pulsed beneath the long sleeves, beneath my skin. At the table, my mother spoke to me harshly and my father with care. She spoke to me the way she spoke to him, with disdain and execration. She did not bother with long sleeves. My father did, but only for a second, and my sister looked too long. I tried to eat but “they” did not like the fruit, the eggs, the pancakes, or anything on the table. I eyed the trashcan and remains of fruit on the dirty counter. As they passed, I was no longer present. The room had long ceased the definition of what it is. Dust lay thick on the dark maple floorboards, pressed there for weeks by neglect. The air had grown tired of circulating. Every object lasted abandoned and forgotten. The anhedonia clicked and stirred irritatingly. I let my arms hang off the edges of the bed and lie useless and tiresome on the musty sheets. Without my compliance, no structure, no help. No food. Crawling. Biting. No no no. Not a single purpose. My family behind closed doors kept moving. Love? No. Yes. Hate. Dead. Spite. No love. Execrate. No. I refuse. My throat tightens and burns. Maybe because of tears or because my body started feeling the effect of zero sleep. The entrance to the room cracks open, a dainty silhouette with light pressing on her back. It is God, I hope it is God. “Did you wash up yet?” A rough voice calls, and I notice it is my mother. “No Mother, I did not.” “You need to fix this. You look wrong.” Wrong? Did she just say wrong? I am wrong? Wrong, wrong, wrong. No. Hate. Despite. Love. Ugly. Wrong. No no no. HATE! She’s, my mother; she should not hate me. No, she loves me. The word drills into my head, wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong, until my thoughts fracture into hate and shame and something like love. “I’m fine Ma.” “You are always fucking fine. If you tried to act like a normal person, you would not be simply fine. You would be great.” My mother’s touch was always rough. I never understood why she was so aggressive all the time. Her touch is unbearable. I hate this. I hate her. I hate everything. I really need a cigarette. Do bugs smoke? My mother’s hand was cold on my arm.

Not that I could feel it, but the bugs could feel it. They crowded around the places my mother pressed on my skin and pounced. They ripped through my skin and dug into hers. Like they had not eaten in forever because they were tired of my blood. I mean I had not eaten since they kept itching with directions. It felt as if their mandibles were gnawing away at my veins. I need my veins, my blood, and my organs. I need my--WHY DO THEY WANT MY BLOOD! This is killing me; I need them out. I need them out of me, NOW. My mother did not even react to the bugs crawling underneath her skin, I am crazy. “This is what I am talking about, always with attitude and disrespect. Acknowledge me dammit!” I looked at the skin around her hand, waiting for it to split, for something to surface, for proof. Nothing. Just her skin. Normal. Untouched. The bugs recoiled, confused, skittering back into my arms, my neck, my chest, clinging to whatever was still mine. They were hiding. They knew better than showing themselves to her. If I uttered something and told the truth, would she think I am crazy? She would, only she wouldn’t believe me. I hate it. Biting. Crawling. Itching. Blink. Blink. Breathe. Remember to breathe. No breath. Please God. I pressed and pressed my arms tightly around my body, finally feeling in control enough to feel the utter embarrassment from my own mother. My throat felt so tight, if I opened my mouth they might swarm out unwantedly. My skin crawled away the same time as my mother on her dainty heels. She was done with my antics, my drama, it was certain. Maybe she couldn’t feel them or maybe they were only after me. Is this loyalty? Is this love? I feel love from bugs but not my own family. They traced familiar enough paths that I recognized them. The only type of paths that someone who loves you would pay enough attention to. I sank into the edge of the covers and shook. The mattress dipped and the bugs swarmed underneath my warm skin. Gravity was pooling in my thighs and stomach. I felt them. Oh my god. No. Crawling. Biting. Shaking. Love. Hate. Oh my god. No no no. Don’t let them out. Don’t let them win. Feeding. Alive. Dead. Execrate. NO! I curled tighter, nails digging into my skin enough for it to pool blood. The bugs surged with greed. This is what love is. Love is greed. Love is loyalty. Love is constant. It is impossible to ignore. Maybe family was suppose to hurt quietly. If I pushed the bugs away, I’d be alone. My skin, My brain, My heart—can't survive that.