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Sometimes I wonder if you would, if you could, peel me. Remove my layers of entrapment, use the crevasses, work them with the very tips of your fingers, catch ahold and pull, uncover.  ignore the blood. Carve away at my crust. Cut the sack and let the puss flow. How much could you stomach?  

Would it be smooth when you peel me? Would the broken case come off silky, slick and sultry as a banana, in that case my skin would slide off, smooth as a stripper down a pole. It would be left with its seams unravelling in a heap, glistening with my grease. Or would I resist, a hardened orange, would you have to work a finger into my sticky wetness, easing it around before you yank, tearing off the outer layer, snapping the sinewy pith that binds the flesh to its coat.  Or perhaps if my rind does not so easily detach, like an apple you’d hack away at the husk of my meat with a blade.  Juiced slabs dangling, my crimson liquid pooling at your feet.  

Could you do it? Could you expose me?  

Free me from my skin; it’s already longing, fighting, to be free from me. 



I was told you need a thick skin to survive in this world. I looked down. I saw my splitting, cracked, peeling, broken fingers. My skin was tough, so tough it was stiff, so stiff it was tight, so tight that with movement it split. In splitting it revealed layers of raw, unsullied sponge. Flesh left bare for the advancing elements. Open crevasses in my protective casing, scales flaking, exposing the perverse virginity. Prickling with dreams of disclosure, flushed with unbearably gratifying exhibition. 

My nails scratch at the discharge weeping from my unsealed flesh. They rip, clawing scraps off, leaving grotesque ribbons curled on the floor. The laceration ensures there’s nothing concealing my modest flesh; it is left to be ravished. To be pried open, crawled within. When the films of separation are broken, spewing legions heave into one another. My gory ooze lubricates the surface as foreign bodies penetrate below the membrane.  Digging deeper, burrowing through drenched rubber, seeking something to hold on to. A damp alcove for a fugitive to multiply, embed.  Boring molecular wombs into my plasma. Germinated sarcomas swell, their bulging abscess’ protruding, bursting with a climactic shudder. The polluted contaminate surges unhindered through my passages, probing every crevice.  

 The entities of which I assumed dominion, under a direct act of violation. An assault on my form, through unstoppable fluids, flows from me and into me without consent. 

Kids used to run from her; her cracked hands, crusted skin. Her eyes echoing her weeping flesh as they escaped her, the infectious horror. 

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