SHEEP SKIN

by Ivy Hon

                 de·​scend | \ di-ˈsend

​

"Those who go down there are mad," they had told

me.

What’s madder I think are those that shuffle up those

steps, day after day, face pointed straight to their toes

—mechanically moving.

The rabbit hole is not for the faint of heart. It is those

who are willing to nosedive into territory that is unlit.

This is how we pave a way to a society we did not know

could exist.

So, let me be mad.

Let me descend.

Let the sheep slip from my skin.