Skin

I sew words into paper flesh; they are

my flakes of dead skin: gross, human,

unsightly, insignificant. Each letter is washed from

my cheeks, flows down the sink, unnoticed. Still,

I shed. I cannot help it. Every evening peels

a layer of semantics from me, built up

from the day’s ceding, sown, unknown

even to me. So I pick at it with my pen

to help pluck back the filmy plates of

meaning, that I might string them

together, line by line, straining under

the microscope to comprehend.

 

 

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