The skin I’m in is thin. Veins of red and blue reign through. Freckles heckle purity. Nails take in so much dirt, I don’t know why. I wail; I cry. The spire of this is amiss but for this. What I have, I have. I shave, I clip, I cleanse, I comb. The skin over leg and lip, the hurts I cut on the earth I roam. But this, this, is always home.
C L Couch