My poetry is a museumwhere I keep my skinspeeling it off aftertaking off all my clothesin a place full of unknowns,
someday people pick the flowers
to bring to the graves off all the skinsI shed in form of my wordsSome gets so comfortable they want to see every inch of my skinOthers are too terrifiedthat they put daggers into my neck,the moment I unbutton my collar button.
