Dried. Cracked.

I miss my old skin;
my new one stretches too thin.
It itches, tearing

me     apart. It Hurts.
Will I get used to It,
or Will I grow
a New one?




New Haven, March 2018



(Hello! That's my first poem since my poetry course and I don't know if I like it or not. I guess I'm experimenting meaninglessly)

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