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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required I sit on the tiles and breathe. Slow. Quiet. Trying to be small enough for the morning to hold me. The water spills, slides into the grout, and rises somewhere else — like the world is leaking through its own seams. And then I see it. A shadow. A shape. A second skin coming home. She sits on the tiles, breathing slow, in and out, a quiet meditation in the morning hush. Her glass of water tips, spills across the floor — she watches it seep into the grout, then rise back out onto a tile twelve inches away. How is this possible? She blinks, leans closer, and that’s when she sees it — a shadow sliding across the tile, fast, deliberate, alive. She reaches out, but anger slips away, too old to hold, too quick to name. It’s the second skin, the one she never meant to lose, the one they called unholy when it was only bruised. It crawled back home, right into her kitchen, and she finally sees the fire she’s been living with. It’s the second skin — and she’s done running from it. It moves under the table like a storm, black-ink muscle, heat-born, eyes bright with centuries of women’s rage — the kind the world called wicked, the kind they exiled to a distant moon. She stands barefoot, trembling, watching it breathe, watching it circle, watching it remember everything she tried to forget. She tries again, but it darts beneath the table, a truth too raw to catch with hands. It’s the second skin, the one she never meant to lose, the one they called unholy when it was only bruised. It crawled back home, right into her kitchen, and she finally sees the fire she’s been living with. It’s the second skin — and she’s done running from it. No scripture, no hymn, no holy word could cage it. It was never evil — just ancient, just human, just hers. The dragon lifts its head, and something in her rises too — a breath she’s held for years finally breaking through. She lets it move, she lets it burn, she lets herself become everything she was told to unlearn. It’s the second skin, and she’s not giving it back — the one that kept her fire when the world turned cold and black. It crawled back home, right into her kitchen, and she finally knows the truth she’s been living with. It’s the second skin — and she rises with it. A hiss in the silence, a pulse under the ribs, a shadow that settles but never sleeps. The tiles cool, the water stills, and the dragon waits — patient, ancient, part of her now. Morning breaks, but something older breaks with it.
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