Skin

my entire life I have lived as a vagabond,

hiding in shanties made from rice paper,

searching to wrap my being in something,

something other than the turmeric sadness

that powders my raw and reeling muscles,

which at first glance, look to be made of sun,

but wither and flake into pollen torrents

when touched. with all this talk of skin,

you would think I’d have found some by now,

but as I shed my body’s unnatural glimmer,

only cavities remain from the diamonds

that pierced my bone, yet shone so bright.

this pain, in all its brilliance, reminds me

that perhaps, even the sun is sad too.