Not My Skin

This morning at work I was hangin clothes and could see my own breath.  Indoors, mind you.  It's like tyhis every winter and every winter I am so fucking miserable.  I kept thinking this wasn't meant for me.  I don't need to be here, in this place where my hands & feet are so cold they hurt.  I fought tears all day.

I keep feeling like this isn't me.  I wasn't born in the right time or place.  This isn't my skin, this isn't my body--it can't be!  How can this fat ugly body be mine?  I feel like I wanna crawl out of my skin and go somewhere--anywhere else. 

As always, soon the stinging behind my eyes turns to rage that I do not conceal.  I cuss out loud and while I do not throw things I may perhaps, things down loudly and such.  I cannot contain it.  The frustration eats me alive from the outside.  I curse myslf for thinking of what could have been, other choices I could have made.  Why do that?  It's not going to make me any warmer, any happier. 

Soon, I'm fighting back tears.  I hate this place.  I hate this job.  I hate that even after 9 or 10 hours on the clock, I face another 5 or 6 when I clock out.  Every winter I think it's going to be the one that breaks me.  And yet I survive.

I'm so fucking tired.  Exhausted.  Tired of thinking about what could have been, what should have been.  You stupid, fat, ugly cow.  You fucked up everything!  Nobody cares if you're cold. 

I gotta get out of here.  It's only been one very cold day, the first of many and it's already breaking me.  I'm home now, alone and sobbing freely.  This cannot be my skin.