Margaret Hillert

Nobody sees what I can see,
For back of my eyes there is only me.
And nobody knows how my thoughts begin,
For there’s only myself inside my skin.
Isn’t it strange how everyone owns
Just enough skin to cover his bones?
My father’s would be too big to fit—
I’d be all wrinkled inside of it.
And my baby brother’s is much too small—
It just wouldn’t cover me up at all.
But I feel just right in the skin I wear,
And there’s nobody like me anywhere.