skin

my skin. my very own skin.

a silken skin nearing transparency; 

the veins running blood a constant

transfusion to the heart.

the muscle, my muscles, (I’ve always

had them but not for exhibition)

are incapable of lifting, unlike the ant,

anything heavier than my weight.

my eyes seem to be widening.

it's not yet concerning, but

they seem to be widening.

I can tell. I know these things.

soon, they'll become the last

eyes of my father.

I should be exhibited inside a museum.

one portrait is enough;

this is my skin, the introduction

to what lies beneath the surface

like Ingres' drapery, or Vermeer's, or a prom dress.