fresh flesh
i dance
this body,
sip the dips of
this body. love
this body.
the new skin i
slipped into, a perfect
fit, too,
all i’ve dreamed to
become,
to blossom.
the happy is
shedding,
though,
joy in wonder
in the fit of a
novel skin, slithers from
my forefingers and the
lingering print is
unhappy.
in the pockets of the
imperfect fit, i
grip the
craving to crawl
away.
instead,
be empty.
re-love the
empty he left
me. being decorative
company. a talking
accessory. plucked
fruit,
not quite
ripe.
maybe,
when i sleep,
cast away in a
pink sea of
sheets, i will
relapse into
comfort in discard,
comfortable being disregarded.
maybe,
next week, my knees
won’t go weak at the
sight of an impossible
face, no,
maybe,
i will stand and
take up
space.
love is
woven in the
place we baked our
universal sun, the
one that rises on the
east
and we set across the
Lawn, barefoot
i walk on and
along to
my backyard.
i think,
i finally did run and
kept on running.
took my bike and
kept on biking.
me, on a hike, and
kept on hiking. the
good ending
where i ran and
ran away.
i
didn’t end
there, here is the
afterlife, still living in
familiar patterns. intertwined
among the
tides i am finding,
i am finding
and that
constant is a
constant thrill––please
go,
leave,
don’t you stop
me from
discovering
what makes the
insides, soft and sweet. the
running is
freeing, and i free
myself from the
familiar,
familial––
his excessive,
peeled,
shedded
skin.
what he
left behind, or
what i
inherited?
crawling out his
hollow hide, my lungs
were not born
for air so
fresh.
my inhaler nestles
against my chest,
brown chest,
beside my heart,
my treasure chest,
i press my face, my
hands smooth and
blistered, the
usual growing
pains, and
bring a finger to my
lips for a
taste––
it’s me.
