Our skin itches just below
the surface, a tickle in the throat
of our veins

This feeling of hands
on our skin, stroking our thighs
and inching down our bellies

In stories from centuries
ago, our skin was cursed,
befouled by Gods or just because

In these stories, we cursed
our bodies and the weight of our skin
as it changed us, shaped us, made us

We wanted out, out, out
and we’d arch our backs, scream
out to the Gods to free us from our skin

But these are stories, and now we
only arch our backs, scream
names in pleasure, from hands upon our skin

Can we dig our nails
so deep that our skin
comes undone?

It seemed so simple,
if our skin could slip off,
watching snakes push their way out

Our new skin is so smooth,
the surface shiny as the blood
in our veins