Borrowed Skin

That sweater slides too loose,

a shadow folding over my shoulders,

too big, stretched, like wearing someone else’s weather.

The yarn bites sharp in places,

a rough weight pressed where my skin remembers softness.

I catch my reflection swallowing its edges,

like swallowing space I was never meant to hold.

I want to peel it off,

this borrowed skin that smells faintly of other rooms,

but it clings like a bruise,

a quiet reminder that some things don’t fit clean.

So I wear it anyway,

a costume of someone else’s shape,

waiting for the moment it slips away,

leaving me skinless in the mirror’s cracked light.