Sometimes, I am wild and uncouth. My carefully manicured veneer cracks and splits, leaving that diagonal, frayed lacing across the wound.
The Jekyll oozes out. It chafes against the constraints of all too perfect white skin, and the simpering femaleness of my culture.
It is solitude that gifts me this private haven. The "close the gate, lock the door" solitude; my body dressed in drawn blinds.
I eat with abandon. The ravenous hunger stalks out of me as though giving birth, heaving toward fullness. It thinks, "replenish me, fill me up, inundate those dry humour crevasses, deep in my hollow bones.
There is no need to fear me, here. My vision is turned inward; my solitary Gorgon eye does not ogle you. It is too preoccupied with noesis and legacy.
I am upgrading.
The I you know will return, and for all the effort, will look similar; only a minute pink scar perceptible to the aware. The interface will be pristine. Yet, I will know I was not dreaming.