The Temperature of Skin

what we are. empty caskets in seldom funerals. flesh turns in its process. all missing words and hungry truths. 

the monsters have their claws. the heroes have their blades. though the tales they tell are only borrowed victories.

the math betrays. our glorious nothing. 

we are stung. by time's dirty needles. curs on long leashes. seduced by our cages. 

what we are. strangers in soiled costumes. defied by our own deceits. 

the flesh has its own measures. scales that cannot be fooled. every touch precisely weighed. 

we are undressed. cut by love's sharp zippers. and left to bleed.