In this skin I’m a prisoner, trapped by a scent unseen,
washing away fears, in showers that never clean.
A lingering notion, a foul, imagined stain,
spoiled meat, sour notes, driving me insane.
I scrub the phantom from my flesh until it bleeds,
yet the stench of my own dread never recedes.
Layer on layer, deodorant like armor,
each application a futile charm to disarm her–
the beast of odor that haunts my every step,
in every crowd, a nose wrinkles, and I feel the depth
of stares and whispers that slice the air,
I’m the source, they must be aware.
I’m shrouded in a fragrance that no one else can smell,
a private hell, woven by my own olfactory spell.
I bathe in the illusion of decay and rot,
invisible clouds of shame, in every spot.
No soap can cleanse, no scent can mask,
this torment that clings to me like a haunted cask.
How do I escape a foe that’s born from within,
a spectral stink, a ghostly skin?
Every gaze, every whisper fuels my fear,
in this scented prison, I’m held near.
So I stand under the water, letting it fall,
hoping each drop washes away the pall.
Yet, as I step out, the scent returns to taunt,
in this unending olfactory haunt.