So often,
I crawl into my closet,
breathe in the clean,
stale
smell
of my clothes,
listen to my breath,
and wait
to become
a skeleton
a secret left unfound,
running my finger-pads
along
the smooth interior,
an interior
I was never meant to
touch,
only my clothes,
my clean, stale
clothes,
that don't breathe
or cry
or need
to run their finger-pads
along the smooth interior
to feel
reassured
and
comfortable
in their own skin,
so ironically
surrounded
by a multitude
of clothes
used to layer body
trying to
feel
comfortable
in my own
skin
when
I'm just
a
skeleton.
YOU ARE READING
Feathers: A Book of Poetry
PoetryA pencil is the spotlight of a soul. It tells them its okay to overflow. It tells them ideas are art, and that the best ones are masterpieces. Feathers is a collection of poetry by me to convey the beauty and undeniable strife of the world, and emot...
