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Skin

Is it too late to start again, do you think?
Peel it all off and grow another skin?
This one never fits —
too large at the waist,
too tight at the hips.
And the holes
where I tried to grow horns
and teeth …

An old rug,
faded and fraying,
it recounts each tepid tale—
coffee stains and grease spots,
shoe prints and shiny patches
where our sofa lay
yawning.

Could I trade it in, do you think?
Throw it out and get another?
Sleek and rippling,
death glinting in its eyes,
striped and quivering,
cold and glittering.

It doesn’t matter which.
Anything is better than the skin I’m in.
Anything is better than this skin.