Tamara Stamenkovic
Poetry,  Written literature | Author's writings

I’ll tear my skin with dirty fingers full of foreign bodies under my nails

I’ll tear my skin
with dirty fingers
full of foreign bodies
under my nails.
It stretches like it’s elastic,
convinced
that my hollow bones
are its home,
its layers are full
of clues, full of blood.
I dig in it with my palms,
I dig with my nails, as deep as possible
inside my skin,
helplessly,
every day.
It’s here
more and more convinced that I was
the right one for it,
that my flesh is its flesh,
that we are one.
And I know we aren’t.
Every time I look in the mirror,
every time I feel the water,
every time I put on my shirt,
I know we are not one.
Sometimes I don’t know if my skin
isn’t mine
or if I’m not its.
I touch myself every day,
but it protects me.
It doesn’t let me reach myself;
nor my bones to trap me.

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