I wear sadness a little too well,
it almost feels like second skin now –
uglier,
thicker,
more pronounced under the sun glare.
I wish I can undress myself.

Hera is sneering from afar.

I wish I can undress myself,
step out of this boundless skin
and its ironic inadequacy –
I am made of August’s tortured sighs;
I have worn them from my head down to my soles.
In vain, I have started scraping myself
against the softer sides of sunlight
but all I do is bruise and burn.

Hera looks down with pity –
somehow it's so much worse.


I wish I can undress myself.
I wish I can undress myself.

I wish I can undress myself
more than I already have.