I’m extra thin. I feel air on my skin, but I’m fully clothed. I feel netted. Cut it and I’d spill out all over the floor. I don’t even have ribs. My heart’s not under there. It’s like sandpaper under the skin. But maybe softer. If you said your toe hurt, my heart would feel it. If you said you’re lonely, I would feel it. If you said you’re heartbroken cause you just can’t ‘make it,’ I would feel that and that too probably more than you. My skin sweats most of it out. Feeling to water to words. Sweat stains on paper on pens and bitten caps. I look at people and think they look at me. The woman extinguishing germs from the arm of her chair. Wiping, wiping, wiping with white cloth. Can she see me picking off parts of myself – hair, skin, nails and flinging them to the ground? Can she see me trying to leave a trace of myself?
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