In Borrowed Skin

I reach into the pocket for my hands

and my fingers close around paper,

a receipt with a name printed on it

that isn't mine. I don't look at the details.

I don't need to. I already know too much

about this coat—the way it fits

wider across the shoulders than mine does,

the way the cuffs are slightly too long,

the smell of detergent I don't use,

something floral I would never choose.

I'm wearing someone else's life

for the six blocks to the bodega,

and it feels like trespassing,

like I've walked into a room

I wasn't invited to and I'm trying

not to touch anything.

The coat keeps me warm anyway.

It doesn't care that my arms are inside it,

that my body has borrowed its heat.

I'm not grateful. I'm not apologetic.

I'm just aware of how easy it is

to slip into another person's world,

how simple it is to look like

you belong somewhere you don't.