skin

and the wind really does howl, love.
you can hear it coming, thundering, like timpanis
just before it tries to take you with it on its undoubtedly malevolent course
"it’s only skin" he says, sleep-talking
but it is this skin that’s pierced by icy incisors.
this skin, here
the one gaping and hollow
holding the bones being gnawed at
day after day after day.

it’s only skin, yes, yes you’re right,
it’s only skin that contains and protects.
perhaps I’m coming to that
this skin, this skin here,
is not enough.