pt. 4:
skin

sometimes, at night,
my skin pulses with
the rhythm of the streets;
so quietly, as though
it is a secret.
something intimately
private
and dark, lying
vastly unheard,
but mostly naked.

this town, oh, it
gets under my skin.
and i’m more alive,
so much more
desperate
than ever before;
blatant and overexposed
with so many
eyes roaming across
this empty flesh.

and I am blank:
a tale to be written
by some stranger
hand
while I lie flat,
praying for
a happy ending,
the pages of my skin
still turning.
and they say,

“oh, you’re only
growing up.”