Please Find My Attached Resume

I flayed off a piece of my flesh. It wasn't clean, but it was easy enough. It's the kind of sharpness you get out of one of these shitty home improvement stores. It'll cut through paper with some resistance, but try to use it for anything more and it fights back, bites you. I held it up to my desk-lamp, the sheer brightness leaving more of a suggestion of gore in my sight. I picked up an envelope, white and clean, the texture feeling gross on my hands, too rough. Most tenets of society are gross-feeling. To the brain, to the hands, to the eyes. I stuff it inside. A soy-sauce like texture begins to saturate the letter. I like sushi, but that doesn't matter. Right now, what matters is that I can send this across the world.

I've never met her. I guess you could say we're dating. I would. She wouldn't. Sometimes, to prove that we're not dating, she asks me for a piece of myself. Something to prove that I'm real. It's up to me, though. At any point, I can say no. Simultaneously, I also decide what I send. It depends on how good she's been. Conspicuous flesh is for someone who can prove they deserve it. A part of my cheek. The palm of my hand. My eyes. It leaves scars that'll last forever. "Time heals all wounds" leaves out that the "healing" is a permanent scar. Scars are wounds. In a lot of ways, they're even more distressing wounds. Scars tell a story that blood doesn't. Blood can be excused. We all bleed. I fell into a pile of thorns. I tried to climb a fence. I'm cutting off parts of myself for my fascist girlfriend.

She doesn't make me do this. She might be older than me, but I make the decisions here. I choose what I want to do and what I don't want to do. I can stop this at any point. I am in control.

Sometimes, I wonder why the envelopes I'm sending across the world, splattered with my own brain matter, aren't a cause for concern to those around me. I tell others, and they keep quiet. Everyone is okay with this. They've got things to aspire to. My peers are just worried about our exams, they're worried about having good grades going into high school. Our relationship isn't a real concern. This happens all the time. In reality, she's the victim, anyways. I'm cruel.

If I don't do this for her, she might leave me. Distance. Find someone else. She needs to see physical proof that I bleed, or she might get antsy. Without my flesh, I could be anything. With my flesh, she knows I'm a boy. It's easier to engage in what we have. It's reassurance. I'm not a cop.

In exchange, she pretends to be what I've never truly had. She fills a role that's been empty for me. She says that this role is all we have. Moms don't fuck their sons, though. But she's a good mom. So she does.

Eventually, she'll see what's so wrong with her actions. That's what I hope. That's what I pray for. Sure, I brought it all upon myself. I seeked this out. But if I could be afforded something past my own selfishness, it's that she dies. Or maybe, she has to send me something. She'd never.

I love her. It's an easy way for her to get what she wants out of me. My flesh. My brain. It's not developed, which makes it taste better.

When it does develop. Once I'm her age. I'm going to miss her.