In My Skin

I was stitched into the wrong skin 

and nightly it rebels against me;

rashes bloom scarlet in the stifling heat 

of a summer that, by day, 

never shows its face. 


It knew of my disdain for it;

our maliciousness towards each other was 

fueled by genetics, 



and the nervous rage it stirred up in my heart;

my heart and deficient insides. 


The things I thought about it 

in front of the icy mirror 

brewed a poison, simmering, and 

burning holes in the crook of my arm and 

all over the backs of my legs; my thighs 

burned up like hell and

my skin cackled and shrieked 

at her victory. 

The End

0 comments about this poem Feed