inside my skin

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Sometimes I can see the inside of my skin, raw and wet with my tears. It covers the parts that keep me here, in this world—the lungs, heart, liver, spleen, kidneys, pumping, breathing, flowing, moving things that travel cyclically back to their departure point, then onward, then returned. Spinning wheels made of flesh and bone move through veins stretched taut. I flow through self, through tunnels that stop at each organ. Next stop, the unknown conducted on by the known.

I am turned inside out, spread across summer concrete under blazing white sun. I dry and shrivel watching cloudless sky, birds wait to pick at what remains. I am not carrion. Not yet.

© zaji, 2016

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