i've never imagined myself in a relationship. when people ask for my five year plan, my mind doesn't slip romance into the narrative— no shared mornings filled with chapped kisses, or the mouth of another tracing lipstick stains on the rims of my cups, or an imprint of an arm or a leg imprinted in my duvet. it's not even there in subtext, my mind vehemently opposes it in every form. i am disgusting through and through, and i can't imagine another person sharing my presence and enjoying it; being with myself, alone, tires me. i'm too aware of myself, and i'm too aware of other people— i don't like them nor their blatant performance, and i am afraid of encountering a person that's just like me. my imperfections are blatant and explicit, easy to spot and to comment on, but nobody does; you'd think this would comfort me, but it doesn't. if nobody notices me at my worst, who will notice me at my best? it all feels like useless work, and i doubt if i fix it that anyone would realise. there will always be something else.

• i am horribly clumsy. my arms hang heavy and long, and i am afraid if i turn to quick i will knock everything over. i walk carefully but the soles of my feet feel uneven and i stand shakily, with knees buckling and tremoring like a fawn. i'm unsure how to move, yet i am even more awkward when being sedentary. my body contorts afflictively, with skin taut tight over weak bone and i'm afraid it'll rip if i try to make myself comfortable.