Second Skin

The Woman They Try to Become

Some women move through the world without needing to be loud. Their presence lingers in rooms they’ve never entered and in people who never forget.

She slips into silk and stares at the mirror,

Tracing my shape, trying to feel nearer.

But perfume fades and posture breaks—

She can’t steal grace. It doesn’t fake.

He says her name with my rhythm still,

A soft betrayal dressed in thrill.

I’m the second skin she drapes around her bones,

Wants my walk, my voice, my tone.

She drinks me in to feel complete,

But some things she doesn’t get to keep.

I never asked to be the flame—

But I’m the shadow she can’t name.

She mimics my quiet, my gaze, my fire,

Wears my calm like a borrowed empire.

But empires fall when they’re built on sand,

And I was born with fire in hand.

He reaches for her but dreams in me.

Even stars get lost in gravity.

I’m the second skin she slides into at night,

Wants my power, wants my light.

She paints herself in shades of me—

But illusions crack eventually.

She doesn’t become me in pretend.

I’m the curve she’ll never mend.

I don’t chase. I don’t compare.

I breathe in gold. I move through air.

She can mimic, twist, and try—

But I’m the truth she still denies.

I’m the second skin she wears and never fits—

A myth too wild to counterfeit.

She echoes me but misses the soul.

I am the piece she can’t control.

She doesn’t become what she can’t begin—

She just wears me like second skin.