My skin pricks with the itch
of an era that has come to pass.
Experiences draped over me
once in fashion’s favor,
now fallen out of season.
I pick at the layers,
too tight for the expansion of breath and truth,
until they pull apart
into pieces that flake into dust.
I no longer own these pieces
until I fail to recognize them.
They seem to fade into the background
but instead cling to everything,
tickling the places where I thought I knew better.
I cannot escape the dust,
for it is the skin that has made me.
I wonder, then,
if I swallow my own tale,
will I know myself better?
xx
Nykhia
