Leather

by Selveyah Gamblin
Photography by Taylor Degroot

What am I doing? Where am I going? This is not my skin, and this is not my brain, and this is not my world. This charade has gone too far, too long. The last time I was in my own skull … I cannot remember. I cannot seem to find a way out of being crammed into any little black box that makes me look perfect. Desirable. Every new person I encounter rips a part of me away, leaving this stupid fucking fake leather to show. When was the last time I was relaxed—unremarkable? Can you tell me? Because I sure as hell don’t know. Who I want to be is so far from what they—you—have made me that I lie awake, crippled with a fear of having strayed too far to turn back. So I let this fear pull my veins and my hands and my lips to tell fake stories that show my worth, that I deserve to be here, that I am remarkable. I pretend to be unbearably complex, hard to read. I chant to myself “come on, babe, be more like they want you to be and you’ll make it; show some leather!” Maybe then I can fool everyone into thinking I have untold stories waiting to be pulled from deep below to fill you all with awe, keep you interested in me just a bit longer. Make them love me a second more. When the old graying man at the end of the long table interviews me, he wants to hear about my dangerous, tear-jerking adventures in this land of which I suddenly do not belong. A new piece of flesh rips apart to reveal yet another portion of shiny, polished, beautifully faux leather. When the well-intentioned editor who has never seen a world outside of her small town reads words branded onto my heart against my will, she wants me to write more to entertain her colorful imagination. More about struggle, more about pain. More. I am forced to claw at the last of my weak skin, eager to give them a peek of more of the pretty leather they know will be there. I am enough, but that is not enough. You have no time for my happiness or my joy, only my sadness, only my worst. You make me worse, don’t you know that? When you pull at the last part of my skin that I have remaining, my actual skin, you make me so much worse. You read me, critique me, you tear me apart, break me down and in my place you build a new leather suit. Why? What makes you so hungry to see the leather? It took me so long to build this thick skin, only for you to tell me it’s not what you wanted all along. Whatever … The leather is quite beautiful now.