The changeling does not exist in a world of changelings. The point of the changeling is that it is the otherworldly exception, although in our world the needle-rot grows like an invasive species clinging to the rock of healthy humanity. Even still, for now, the changeling exists primarily in a world not of its kind.

There are those, you see, who have everything. Who sit in the soft glow of the lamp with their fellows. Those who have the caress of another, those loved on their bed. Who have no need for the worthless worries of the changeling.

And then there are those who spatter the patio, gone off in the sun. The thick toxification of aluminium, mercury and polysorbate 80 filters upwards, creates a heady sickness. They stand facing the reflected glow of the house, staring at the gifts stripped from their bones like the needle that tore flesh.

No matter how many words there are, no matter how many softpedal claims there are that changelings are special, we see the lack in our bodies and lives.

There can be thousands of different ways that we can feel it.

I feel it most in my chronically untouched skin.

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