Shedding

Okay, so bear with me and my tendency to lean heavily into hyperbole, but I’ve been going through my own kind of metamorphosis. It’s been messy, distracting and wild. It has however, gotten in the way of my writing practice. I suppose it’s because everything has felt precarious, like being stuck on a flimsy fence separating the new from the old, the healed from the unhealed. The past ten months has been an accumulation of flesh, body, substance, tears, and the constant creaking of doors letting ghosts both in and out.

A few months back, I took my babes to a reptile park where I observed a snake shed its skin with fluency. I watched on, simultaneously repulsed and awestruck. Little did I know, this intimate performance would set the tone for my own striptease. In 2025, the year of the snake, the irony of shedding and ruthlessly discarding old skin isn’t wasted on me. On the contrary, I think it fits perfectly.

So for my final shed (unlikely), I’m going to be dumping loose bits, scraps and clutter. I’ll be spitting out unfinished stories that no longer align with who I am, who I want to be, or what I give a shit about, to make space for my new, sexier skin suit. 

I've agonised over these half baked wordy morsels and analysed the congealed clusters for longer than necessary. There was a time when I wanted to craft something provocative out of these homeless thoughts; something, I'd enjoy reading just as much, if not moreso than writing.

I don't care anymore.

-She's Burning