Chemical bound wounds. Absorbed through the mops of my skin I once loved to compare to porcelain, now a cataclysm.

My face, burning to a familiar transparency with the essences I like to use. 

Each being another slap across the cheek, reminding me there’s still structure. 

Prejudiced greetings, they never look me in the eye. 

They wonder and I can almost sense through, thoughts that wouldn’t be said out loud by any with a holy fate.

I fancy in dahlias and snapdragons until I feel a pin drop of Satan's tears.

I escape in any modern looking house, finally unrecognizable from the others; my skin ablaze.