The night has so many layers,
and the midnight sun emerges in my ribcage—
once in a while, when it triumphs over the
moon in a blue dress.

But I don't know how many layers
of the skin there are till it's just the bone and marrow.
Perhaps I've got chloroform in my melanin;
I'd be drowning in the blood and wouldn't know until it hits my nostrils.

There's no apple of my eyes,
or perhaps I'm colorblind—
all I see is the white ripples dappling in my eyes.

Alteration carved
over my skin and eyes,
in foreign letters
of a language I don't understand.