My skin is my home. 

This thin, layers of flesh.

When I’m walking home, under the stars blinking, 

my skin breath in cold, fresh air. 

I feel my warm, hardworking organs, held within my skin. 

My skin is a carriage. 

A carriage of my body, my soul, and memory. 

In shapes of scars, wounds and creases, my skin records memory. 

My skin is my home. 

When I feel light years away from my body, 

I hold myself. 

Tracing the lines of my skin, 

that contains, 

what I identify as, me. 

My skin is a carriage.

I whimper, trying to release and to break at the same time. 

My skin sheds, and I see what was me is now on my bedsheets, on my pillow case. 

My skin is my home, and I am walking home. 

Leaving bits of me on the way.