The trouble with having skin
is its constriction, the way
it holds stubbornly, cruelly
to one shape & size, keeping
all the enormity tucked neat
and tight and suffocating.
The trouble with having skin
is the lie of its elasticity,
the way it stretches for full
bellies and swelling, shrinks
for starvation and grief, yet
never seems to fit right.
The trouble with having skin
is how easily it breaks, how
only blood comes out or guts
or bone, but never light nor
dust nor dreams nor metaphor
nor anything true at all.