I look like a ghost in my own skin,
or more accurately,
like my skin is the only thing holding me here.
If I could have a clean breath,
one without sighs or sobs or sharp intakes,
I would promise God that I would try to do it again.
Because God is a magic force,
that seemed to skip over me,
leave me behind in all his biblical stories.
Stories remind me of television,
dark nights alone,
the screen casting shadows over my skin as I watch movies with rainbow coats.
Zombies walking through the halls,
Eyes clear and unclouded.
Do I look human?
Am I human?
Does it matter?
