Skin

Flesh. It's just flesh, right?

.

that's what they all said

when they took turns ripping in

digging fingers, teeth, and tongue

spreading me apart violently

while the onlookers watched

depravities

tearing

skinning

flaying pieces of me one by one

.

Skin. It's just skin, right?

.

the parts held on by muscle and fat

peeled back— like fruit rind,

draped over knuckles like a trophy,

splatter of blood and bits

worn down and faded pink

stretched until it forgot

what shape it used to keep

.

Bone. It's just bone, right?

.

until there's nothing left to strip off

no flesh, no skin, no bone to call my own,

just a name they used to call

a husk all sunken in and empty

now a shell

something to make the taking easier