Skin

There are a lot of ways I can play this,
a lot of patterns to paint these walls with,
a lot of paper to cover the cracks.
I can build myself a skin out of the scraps I find
in action films and shitty novels,
splicing this guy’s wit with that guy’s cynicism
with that other guy’s pulsing resentment,
weaving trope into trope,
grafting them onto my bones.
I am a magpie.
I steal, I steal, I steal,
I drink their drinks, walk their walks, I think
of a person who drinks their coffee black,
downs jack daniels like water, quirks their mouth just so,
sits with a shiver of violence whispering beneath the skin,
fucks voraciously, sounds like breaking glass
and breathless laughter and tastes like fire,
like want.
Gorgeous.
Bullshit.

And somehow it’s so much harder to do,
sitting here in this ugly crisis centre
with the word rape screaming at me from every wall.

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