Skin Zipper

On certain days I go hunting
for that elusive zipper that will,
once found, allow me to dispense
with my skin.

Slough it off like a snake
whose body has grown too big
to move, to breath
skin too tight to live in.

Relieve myself
of these unreliable lungs
this rusty clockwork heart
of nostrils and mouth
and waste channels
too small to crawl out of.

A womb too dead to carry
a different me to term
and a cunt too unused
to squeeze out a better self.

It’s disappointingly impossible
to produce a new edition.
One that will breathe with its soul
instead of this hateful sludge
of cloying meat, prison bones
the stringy viscera
that will not let me go.

Conversely, it occurs to me
a knitting needle
neatly punched
into the base of my skull
would do just as well