6.8

Your skin hangs off you in loose sheets, floating in the air like fabric in water, its edges corrupted and lacy and slowly going to nothing at the ends. I'm wading through the curtains of you, pulling swaths of hanging you, looking for the underneath truth parts, the self you label "you." I'm collapsing. I'm already losing my strength. I find hands where I don't expect them, obfuscated as they are by waves of ragged flesh. I'm off balance. You pull me in.