A few times, in attempt to relieve my fingers of that constant, stinging pressure, I bend my fingers forcefully where the swell had immobilized my joints, popping the blisters and the capillaries alike in satisfaction, squeezing my hand shut (oh god, when was the last time I was able to to that?) and watch little pin drops of blood blossom underneath the skin where it's too thick to pop, thinking that the little bits of red are nicer to look at than watching blisters blossom above the skin. I squeeze and damage myself as the a little bit of itch leaves with each little bit of liquid.
Do you know what dead skin smells like? I do, and that's because the sour, damp tinged smell lingers on my hand.
I very much believe that my morbid fascination and lack of squeamishness in ruining my own skin is due to early and long-term exposure to my own bloated and liquid-soaked dead skin, white and undeniably dead and uncared for yet stubbornly kept by the body because that's all it has got against the outside world.
You know, about four days after a bout of very bad episode, the skin above hardens as new skin is made underneath the layer of liquid; you can peel the old skin off in big, satisfying flakes. sometimes it's like peeling a croissant, sometimes like peeling dried white glue off your hands, and sometimes it's like peeling a sheet of leather, tough and thick.
The new skin underneath is smooth and shiny and prone to tearing—there are no guarantees on it staying healthy for long before bubbles rise up to, and press against, the thin barricade again.
I suppose the one upside to these explosive onsets have against the slowly manifesting kind is that the skin becomes tough but not brittle, a little more forgiving about movement than the dried and brittle skin that cracks and tears deep since motility is restrained from the inside and not the outside.
Whether the pain or the itch threw me deeper into hopelessness, I do not know.
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