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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