I want to shed this blanket of skin
That binds this frame.
I wish desperately to slip out
As easily
As I would a sock
Or shirt
Or shoe.

It is *****, it is dusty, it is
Eaten away by moths
In some places,
Stretched and torn like cling wrap
In others.
It reeks of must
And the over-sweet smell
Of cheap perfume.

Heavy, insufferable, and vulnerable,
It subjects me to the whim of Man.
It is smothering me,
Demanding that I keep it up
-The con, the jig, the ruse-
For (it claims) I exist
Only to tend its membranous form.

If I could, I would
Simply strip it all away
To reveal my true, incorporeal self.
It is like nothing you have ever seen.
No, it is hotter than the deepest pits of Hell,
Heavier than every star, collapsed,
More blinding and more absolute
Than the birth of a universe,
Deep inside of this skin.