Always invisible, between worlds, on the borders, in the cracks. Never wholly anywhere or anything.
Always reaching out for the sun, its warmth, its light, its love, its food, its life. Its easy gift of dignity.
Always searching for imagined and unknown places, spaces, faces, that offer a promise of fond embrace.
Always wishing for the stars, the planets, the galaxies, and everything beyond our earthly and stunted understanding.
Always trapped, in this game, in this shame, in this time, in this crime. In the fiction that creates truths to imprison.
Always trying to escape, to resist, to scream out, to be known, to be named, to become visible and whole. To become human.
But this skin, this skin that contains me, keeps me, hides me, locks me, chains me, maps me, owns me, mocks me.
This skin, my enemy, my existence, makes me and destroys me.
This skin, I want to shed and replace, this skin is my life, my mind, my disguise, my history, my unknown.
This skin is at once everything and nothing, real and imagined. A translucent membrane to see me through, an invisible wall to keep you out.
This skin, stands between where I want to be, where I need to be, where I long to be, and where I am.
This skin, will not leave me.
This skin. This skin.