My skin
isn't fitting
anymore.
I wear it like a hand-me-down dress,
resentful of the way it
scratches itches pinches pulls pokes chokes
me.
It's tailored to fit someone else.
The person I used to be
but not this new me.
When I try to reach
I can feel it tear
with no point in trying to
repair it,
it doesn't fit me
keep me warm or
protect me.
I'm desperately fighting the urge
to rip it off with
nails teeth sheer will
ANYTHING
so I can free my rib cage and
inflate my lungs without restraint.
But as I examine the fabric
I realize I don't know what's
underneath.
What if I'm bare?
Nothing to hide behind or blame,
only my goose-bumped self
to stand before all eyes,
vulnerable?
Is freedom worth exposure?
The seams seem to grow tighter
as I contemplate,
"This is it.
I cannot wait."
**tear