Second Skin

The gown slips awkward,

thin as regret,

threadbare and scratchy,

caught on a brittle wrist.

Skin not used to this

wrapped in strangers’ fabric,

loose ties slipping like quiet

shame folded into folds.

I watch you shift,

pulling at the edges

like trying to hold onto something

that wants to fall away.

This cloth is not armor,

but a thin barrier

between loss and waiting,

between flesh and the waiting room’s breath.

You tug again,

and I am naked

inside the empty silence.