In my head, there are millions of skins
touching me,
lying next to me in bed.
They can go away,
but they're never really gone.
I think about the girl that I was,
the girl that could have been,
but she's so far away now.
She's walking home
with the man of her dreams
and feeding people on the street.
What was I then
that I'm not anymore?
How can I crawl back to that person
without bloodying my fingertips?
Without scraping my knees?
I'd walk to get there,
but I don't know which direction to go.
And so, the skin that was me,
the ghost that still dances by herself,
calls for me
screams for me
begs for me
to come back.
But I can't even hear her voice
anymore.
