A second skin wraps so tightly
around yours that your own disappears.
It builds the self a new boundary,
while the old one dissolves like salt
trapped in polarity with water.
What was outside is now inside,
what was inside becomes a dim memory
transformed into a thick fog. You plod
through this fog, you breathe it,
believing it will kill you. But your new skin
just absorbs it, until your entire being
is left blind and gasping for the clean
air of hope, a four-letter word whose brevity
tolls in your head, while you wait for relief.