“Fkng crazy. Fkng WILD,” I said, staring up googly-eyed at her from my examination chair.

They taught me to administer the stuff myself, that first appointment.

It came in an ice-packed box, monthly. To be injected fortnightly.

Plastic syringe filled with a clear, viscous fluid. Spring mechanism in the handle.

Cost hundreds per dose, but Medicaid somehow covered it for $3 per two-pack.

Jabbed into bunched-up tummy fat, squeezed in. Band-Aided. Lil bubble on my tummy till the fluid dispersed.

Last I’d seen her, at our one-month check-in, last week. She’d given me her personal line. Had told me—as I got dressed, pulling my shirt down over my, sure, lil flared but nonetheless fkn CUT UP (and not in the eczema way, if in that way also) torso, after she’d touched me how she had, both of us breathless at the intimacy—to call her for anything.

“If you need anything,” looking at me significantly.

Things seemed to settle a sec after that first injection.

Could hardly believe my gooped up, conjunctivitis-ed out eyes—which, conjunctivitis, was the one side effect, the one downside. This would, however, subside with time, derm bae assured me. Once my body adjusted.

But then, a few days into my second round of injections, my skin started doing that weird skin thing it had been doing before.

Cracking then dying then shedding.

Like the most OD sunburn.

An entire layer of skin deciding: Eh, we’re over it.

Flaking to the floor.

Fucking up roomie bae’s socks again.

I panicked. And this panic made my skin spazz even more.

Tryna get all the dead skin off in one go and, in so trying, further irritating it.

But then remembered. Derm bae. Personal line.

Only, before I even had a chance to call, right when I was about to, like 8 p.m. that evening, she called me! Right when shit was getting fucked.

Her knowing this how I knew she really loved me.

Sounding so sultry, so sexy on the phone.

Like she’d just gotten home from a long day giving out orders, healing the masses. Had poured herself a, say…I don’t know…Merlot? Had taken off her dress, kicked off her stilettos—

Wait. What am I saying. She a doctor.

OK whatever. Taken off her…smock?

Look she was taking off her clothes for me! how she sounded.

Anyway.

I told her, frantic, what was going on. How nothing was gonna work. How it was bc I had no discipline, had sinned, had had a beer, some beers, the other night. How I’d been railing Kettle Chips too goddamn much, that was why my skin was spazzing. How I didn’t just have eczema, I had other undiscovered diseases the tests hadn’t picked up on. I was a leper, clearly. There was nothing she nor anyone could do—