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