My skin falls off and I
lock myself outside the apartment and there I am,
piss and shit running down my legs
an endless stream of tears blurring my shriveled face
low-frequency mumble steadily grows into a side splitting shriek;
dying feline with a crushed rib cage; pinned under a sack of hammers

and I have done it to myself.

When it's time to get back into that skin suit,
it's always an unpleasant experience.
Because well you see the thing about skin suits,
is that they loosen with every shedding and you can't get that feeling of
security and innocence back.
Each time you take it off,
it will not fit the same as the last time you wore it.

Fall to pieces, an incomprehensible mess
your skin peels off in long, thin strips - like shredded paper,
drifting slowly to the ground and revealing the shoddy wire structure
holding up your rotting husk
and you don't even have the decency to clean up after yourself.

Meat that's left to spoil
the stink of rot and failure sends your gag reflex into spasms; you choke on the heavy musk
of diseased aspiration.
The mess horrifies you and you shame yourself into a corner on the other side of the room
so that you don't have to look at the bubbling mass of shit that you have shed.

Ignore it, it will (not) go away.
Cover your eyes