The time that takes the picture takes my confidence.
Enemy skin stole the joke from my breath.
How’d I let them take that picture? What’s wrong with me anyway? I don’t remember looking like that, redcracked tired and faking. An old man in a dry mouth.
I would have left if I knew. I would have worn a fucking hat.
Got a tan changed my shirt adjusted the light set something on fire threatened violence jesuschrist.
Who pointed their camera at that? The flash is bad for my eyes which is bad for my skin.
I write death threats to my skin until the goldsun gift of August
when I completely forget.
It’s never good to begin with beauty and go from there. I pretend not to know.
I’m working on a new version of my skin for spring. Bouncier.
Well ok, so spring’s gone. Still raining out.
Whatever—I’m telling you I have ideas about skin.
I’ll put them on you then you trade them back to me.
I offer a broken handful of glass and a ready look.