Through paper thin doors,
Seep the colours of my twenty nine skins,
Hanging from mismatched wire shoulders.
On one side are the statues,
Full circled, halter neck statues,
With shiny black plastic eyes,
That warn me not to touch.
Their colours catch me like wasp fur,
I am terrified by their beautiful boldness.
Glistening cold, black satin nooses.
On the other side,
Home hangs solemnly,
From each metal hanger,
Shrugging into its pale grey,
My fingers run across this side,
Like a reader gently fingers the favourite lines,
Of a childhood book.
The page is torn and yellowing and loved.