Muhfuckers coming through taking blood samples, inspecting me like I was some eczema anomaly.

A rare eczema leper.

In a lowkey fugue state from not being able to smoke once in there.

In a room on Floor 11, overlooking the inner courtyard.

Not even realizing till I peeled out, evening of Day 5, against the nurse’s rec, that I’d been right there on 38th, a block south of the Green Line by ex bae’s where ex bae and I always met.

And it wasn’t till I actually started to heal, till derm bae figured out how, found the drug to get me to, till she witnessed my gradual progress from a leprous to a functional human, in each monthly meeting telling me to strip, that she’d give me a sec, that she’d be right back, like she was going to the bathroom to ‘freshen up’ before a casual, habitual fuck, except I was the one freshening up, she was good to go gowned up with her clipboard, her authority, till she came back and touched me like she did, unflinching at however bad my skin, touching all the parts except the parts parts, all the parts women never touched, exhilarating—

It wasn’t until all this transpired, in the following months, that derm bae became the one.

•

Both derm-assistant duos in there together, the fourth day. To compare findings.

“Never seen eczema so completely from head to toe. Behind the elbows, knees, yeah. But down to the soles, the palms, up to your face? Infected like this?”

Like This some other shit.

Taking my hand, stroking its sandpaper surface like a geologist a rare fossil.

Jotting down archeological deets of their findings.

Convening out in the hallway like during a time-out, devising a plan.

That quick derm-team huddle.

“This is our ultimate challenge,” they announced when they returned, sounding excited.

We were tryna lather my bod with triamcinolone, the fourth nurse and I.

Hard to get my left arm, around the IV.

Barely able to sleep, maybe it was all the roid cream, but was so keyed up.

The fourth nurse an Asian American dude around my age, who’d done tech or science research all his twenties, something technical and lucrative.

Now ‘giving back.’

I started getting all these texts that night, it was a lunar eclipse, from randos who didn’t know I was locked up or who were asking whether I was out yet, whether I was seeing this, whether I was doing anything to commemorate it, based mostly on the weird flex / confusing virtuesignal I did in pod intros, commenting on and claiming secret knowledge about the moon and its cycles.

Limping over to my window, tryna see it.

Unable to.

Lone window facing the wrong way.

Later that night, wanting to see the blacked-out moon, or mainly to smoke, so damn badly.