Sometimes it feels as if I have no skin on.

Every blow of unfavorable wind
like thousands of needles
driven deep into exposed flesh.
Crowds of relentless, sandpaper-cloaked figures
tear off muscle, fiber by fiber
as they pass scraping by.
Gazes turn sunbeams into chisels
that carve fourth degree burns
into the sorry mess of these insides-turned-outsides.

Maybe I truly have no skin on. Maybe that's why they point at me.
Always with such pity, amusement
And disgust.