I’d like to think my lips are caterpillars
And the skin that peels off
Is made from the most painful silk-
Stained red from the sweat of its shedding.
I think I will be a moth when I grow old
And my wings will be wrinkly and sunken-
One day I’ll be flaking the dust off my visage
And in a gust of wind, my face itself will blow away.
I wonder what it will feel like
To grate the calluses off my bones
And grind into the earth
In a final attempt to give myself away to something.
I wonder if it hurts
And I hope, in a way
That it is agony-
I wonder if I’ll feel myself decay.