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.