In my cupboard
On the rail hangs a skin white as snow
Old amongst the young
Untouched by, time it hangs pure
This skin that was once my own
Now a skin I feel I do not own
Surly out of it I must have grown.
Do I need to buy?
Have I the pockets rich and deep?
Skin shallow I feel.
Who is this little me, I have grown up to be?
Who is this embalmed boy
wrapped in white linin
There are no skeletons in my closet
only bone and spine
only mind and blood
divinely wrapped in this thing called skin
his spirit does not live in cupboard caves
but in my heart, in my heart I,
know my spirit remains.
Now climbing in this skin it seems to fit
Has this been me all along I wonder?
Who was I, when I wore it?
Have I changed?
Or have I become
Am I or have I
The white jacket I was me all along