Skin Suits and Roasted Hearts

We tremble in our skin suits,

shaken not by storms,

but by the wagging fingers of those

who judge the fragile phases of our lives.

It tears something deep inside us—

to be alone, again.

I’ve become untouchable.

Not by choice,

but because staying distant

seems to keep the peace around me.

We are not allowed what we crave the most.

So on a dismal spit,

our hearts slowly roast—

crackling with silent pain,

dripping with unspoken longing.

The words that spill from that cooking heart?

They’re pieces of us.

And reflections of them too.

Meanwhile, the world expands—

but it doesn’t embrace.

It only grows colder.

And the wellspring inside me?

It grows more tired,

more disappointed

with the numbness

I’ve learned to wear like armor.