How many layers of myself can I shed,
Before desperately wanting to sew them back on?
To which extent am I able to dissect my thoughts openly,
Before they transmute into incomprehensible gibberish,
Like a disemboweled audio tape?
To often, I want to take off my astronaut’s helmet,
Reveal the most vulnerable parts of myself
And mix with the landscape,
But refrain to do so,
Afraid to encounter the same displacement,
The arsonist did, when he talked too often about fire.