onionskin

onionskin

everything is paper.

delicate,

and easily torn

to shreds.

i catch myself

on the sharp edges

of other people,

and tear.

there are rips

almost too small to see,

but enough

for fragility to bloom.

time hisses

through the rips

like wind

across a tombstone,

and i wonder,

what age I'll be

when I start to taste

my history,

at the back of my throat,

climbing silently

from my secret gut.

my felt sense 

parchment dry,

strains

only for pity.

in the absence

of authenticity.