I am always molting;
leaving my hollowed skin
in awkward places, scaring
people and making them

They touch me and think
I’m real; then laugh
and say things like
“What a riot.”

I’m tired of this changing
of skins.
I’d rather stumble
on myself and be fooled;
and grab
my dry and scaly shell,
and feel it crumbling,

and laugh and laugh.

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