Now, as I am one year and seven months from thirty, I understand the infinity of growing old. I imagine myself as recycled clay. Formed into this year, grabbed by another and shaped into that one—but where is the kiln? Where is the sun that dries the grapes?
I still think about the endocrinologist lifting my shirt to see how my ribs were jutting out of the skin.
Guest contributor Wandy Ortiz shares her experience of skin-picking, and reflects on what drives the compulsion for her.
She calls me petulant. Maybe she’s right.
