Third Stor(e)y
Stephanie Coffey

My body feels like the walls of this apartment:
scarred and dented with a story that I wish someone could map,
plastered with holes that look like cigarette burns and thumbnails.
I run fingers along the grooves and discover
I canít
chip away layers of yellow paint,
peel through
the colour
of novelty and sun.

I wear
second-skin.

I can see the prisoner
painted into the walls.