my skin was off
the first time i met you and
you saw how ugly it was to be me.
even if i looked frightening,
your face remained static—you wore the kind of skin
that reminded me of the most calm and quiet period
of the night where i can just be myself.
there, i could wear any skin i want
to hide,
to be happy,
to be at peace
or perhaps i wear them at random
just so i can feel something.

you stood there and perceived me
beyond this paper skin as if my ugliness
was something that can be erased.
but just like every skin
that is hanging inside my closet,
every single one of them is threaded
with some sort of deficiency
and each time i wear them,

     i light myself on fire
     because i like watching myself burn.
     slowly, you walked towards me to warm yourself.