Super rough! Too soon for actual critique, but any first thoughts welcome xo
The People Without Skin
The people without skin don’t know they are without skin. They don’t remember the molting, the day they ripped through their old lives.
The people without skin just want to feel better but they don’t know what is wrong with them. They don’t know we can all see their muscles, connective tissues, the food as it slowly dissolves.
The people without skin are never the ones to find their own skin, now hanging in your closet fully intact, a deflated body gently swaying among the dresses.
The day you found the skin it was still warm, iridescent, papery, imprinted with the many imperfections of a body.
The people without skin cannot see what everyone else can see. When you are weeping in the closet, pleading with the skin, the people without skin don’t understand.
But I’m here they say, I’m right here.
When you yank a soul from the underworld, not all of them comes back.
It must have been effortless, the tearing, the wiggling out of the old skin, leaving it there in entryway floor in almost perfect condition.
The people without skin would be so hurt if they knew the truth.
The people without skin don’t know they are without skin, and if you tell them the shock of it could throw them into a tailspin of panic. Like waking a sleepwalker.
The people without skin are desperate for your love. They give you gifts—music boxes and necklaces with I love you written in 100 languages so tiny you need a magnifying glass to see them all.
The people without skin don’t understand why you don’t kiss them back. I’m here they whisper when they find you again asleep in the closet. I’m still here.