It is stuck to my bones,
but it doesn’t seem to quite fit.
I would like to remove rotten pieces,
times flies as I sit and slice it.
Not as smooth as it used to be,
parts are scarred, the surface uneven.
I pick at wounds
until they start bleeding.
I stretch out my skin, dangling extremities.
I don’t think it has been stitched on properly.
A tailor has no remedies
for skin that hangs so sloppy.
We are not meant for each other,
what I think when I stare at my skin.
I will always resent my skin’s color,
born without the glow seen on other men.
Almost Forever By Jasen Sousa (Written between age 22 and 23)