My skin is thin. It falls off under the feel of my finger. It peels, and pulls away from the flesh beneath, like an empty plastic bag submits to the gust of wind with which is flies. It sluffs from this surface and leaves behind traces of its transition. It is dead and alive in its desire. Regardless, it retains the remains; I am left marked. Conscious and colored the mirror reminds me I am a pale, psychic palate. I am shamed at the sight of this damaged damsel.

And yet, I wish it could take more from me than cells.


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s