We look just like you.

Faces, limbs, fingers, toes.

          

        They’re yours.

 

We have no skin of our own.

        Why bother,

when we can always

borrow?

 

You think we’re a myth.

 

We slip into the empty spaces

        between words,

we are

their silent shadows.

 

        Our mouths

are filled with moths.

 

One whisper and your skin

slides off its flesh.

                 It wraps

around a shadow hand

like a discarded coat.

 

Our hair is our own. It burns.

 

You, who are blind,

                 fumble

through your small lives

believing they would last

forever.

 

Death walks among you,

                 hair ablaze,

whispering names

        as lovers do

 

sweet nothings.