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 net set of skin,

one akin

to models

and stars?

Behind bars,

one’s self,

one’s shield,

peeled,

revealed:

Amy.

 

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