poetry

Itchy Sweater

By Amy Thomson

Rub,
scratch.
Poor material:
chemical,
arterial.
Take it off,
this itchy sweater.
Trend setter.
Out of my skin,
onto the floor,
rotten core
exposed.
Suppose,
I buy a new set of skin,
one akin
to models
and stars?
Behind bars,
one’s self,
one’s shield,
peeled,
revealed:
Amy.

 

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