Credo

It makes me anxious when I’m wearing green eyeliner and it smears.
It makes me anxious to say the word “smell” out loud.
It makes me anxious when people look at my hands.
Hands. That’s something you can hold on to. Hands only sweat when you’re not alone and then you’re made out to be clammy. Hands are covered in fur, or acne, or lemon juice and sugar and that makes you sticky to touch - when you brush hair out of your face it leaves a trail of wet. It makes you anxious when people look at your hands because of all the things you can and can’t do with them.
Hands. I don’t know how to hold a person’s hand. They feel slick with aloneness and the thing that isn’t comfort. I have clammy hands that sometimes shake when I’m scared, pulsing with each quick breath.
Hands are anxiety, and feet aren’t any better. And I don’t know what I believe in.
It relaxes me to put pen caps in my mouth.
It relaxes me to say goodbye properly, without one person looking back longer than the other.
It relaxes me to look at girl legs, in thigh highs.
That’s it, then. Legs are walking into dark places, where people can’t see the lumps at the end of my wrists.
But I don’t believe in leaving. I don’t know what I believe in.