Thursday, November 19, 2020

Previously Published in Dead Snakes . . .

The Skin I Choose

to wear is soiled.  Smudged,
scarred, and scarcely identifiable
as my own, I hold myself up
before the sun.  I sparkle.
Alive, the pieces of me are print
[ed/ing] with visible soundings
of you.  Wham, blam, bang.  A touch
crashes like shotgun.  I am 
blue and silver and solidly under-
estimated [as a target].  Bullseye!
Bullshit!  I am waiting for the sin
to dry.  Shake it off.  I'm a lizard baby.
Nail me to the wall.  Just
understand, there is no guarantee.
Tomorrow's scales already smell
of the same stain.

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Previously Published in Epigraph . . .

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