6.7

She said that I needed to write about identity.
I realized identity is fake.
We are our actions. Our actions are life.
but then there is all this bullshit in our head.
My issue with identity?
I can't recognize myself.
In the morning, it is "to whom do these legs belong?"
Catching myself in windows feels more like "CREEPY STALKER, oh that's me"
I guess I wanted her to pull a Tyra and force me to look in the mirror and name 10 nice things about myself. However, this never happened. Instead she formed this habit of placing her palms under my ears and staring sweetly into my eyebrains. This really ground my gears. All I could think of during this caring moment of self acceptance was how much neck fat I had lost in order for her to be able to feel my jaw (along with "how much longer can I get away with seeing her?"). I felt bad, but really there is no way to be able to explain.
It is like phantom limb.
but phantom body.