I cross the street br and my skin falls off. Who walks br to an abandoned lake? Who br abandons lakes? I ask questions br to evade personal statements. When you are br skinless, you cannot bear to be br more vulnerable. With skin, I br would say I am in love with br Love as in that old-time song br crooners like to croon. With skin, br I would wear elbow-length opera gloves br of pearly satin. Protect my skin. br Hide it. There is no skin br like my skin. How I miss it — br I miss it as I would a knitted bonnet, a br pewter teaspoon to stir sugar into hot water. br My great passion was my skin. The lover br I loved. They don't br sell skin at Wal-Mart. And really, how br could I, humanely, buy it? Would you ever br give me your skin? This is a terrible world br we live in. There are mistakes and br batteries littering a junk drawer, br where Mother would hide my house keys and Father br would store his eyeballs. Do you know br Puccini? Do you spill silk br at the gorgeous onslaught of love, of Pinkerton's br lurking return? Butterfly had no skin either br but you could not tell from the outer left br balcony. As I lay in a bed br of my dead skin, I dream of Butterfly br and what she could have done instead: br run away to this little room br to lose her aching voice, to listen br to the hourly ringing of bells br that is really the souring birdsong br of a child, skinned and br laughing, a child that will never be hers.