An old self
once watched a how-to video
for bearded dragon care
out of bored curiosity.
“The eyes are always the last to go.”
A soft-voiced woman wields tweezers
to tug her pet’s blindfold away.
Underneath peeling paper,
fresh scales gleam.
I have become reptilian.
My growth is an expulsion
of the past through my pores.
My growth philanders,
head always turning for a newer self,
someone who can be loved with passion.
A sea of former selves
buffets the current one,
struggling to stay afloat.
When she, in a moment of panic,
deploys a lifeboat for the soul,
she capsizes, melts into saltwater.
She becomes another wave.
I grow unrecognizable more quickly now.
My rate of change accelerates.
The self of mere months ago sheds
before I can grow a new one.
A stranger stares back from the mirror.
My growth has hit terminal velocity:
final alienation of the self
from all others.
She puts a hand on the inside of the glass.
If you cannot recognize me, her eyes seem to say,
there is no hope for us.
In the video the woman explains,
while pulling gingerly on dead scales,
bearded dragons usually shed on their own.
Sometimes, though, their claws are insufficient
to peel back fragile seeing-skin.
Who would pull away wool
from the eyes of a stranger?
I need someone to hold me still
and teach me
to stitch old selves to the new.
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Elizabeth Sutterlin (she/her) is a writer and researcher based in Washington, DC. Her work has previously appeared in several print and online publications, including Solarpunk Magazine, Sixfold Magazine, and Short Édition. She occasionally tweets from @ElizabethSut.
so moving. beautiful work.