Borrowed Skin

Each morning I wake, feel the weight of my frame,

a body that aches, yet feels utterly the same.

I watched my sister struggle, a box in her hand,

each movement a battle, a shifting of sand.

Her laughter was heavy, tinged with regret,

she carried her pain, like a debt we forget.

I wish to unlearn, to step in her shoes,

borrow her burdens, feel the weight of her blues.

In this frayed fabric of skin we reside,

each bruise tells a story, a secret we hide.

We’re vessels of longing, of comfort and strife,

bodies like borrowed things, heavy with life.