My skin can't swallow you

I'm stuck in skin that is elastic enough for growth but not spacious enough for you to slide in next to me, blend with me. I can hold five years of loosely tied, tumbling honey hair and barely suppressed giggles in my lap, share chunks of childhood with my first friends, lead the train of his thought as though it were my own, let you read my words. I can hold hands as glittering water shoes search for a grip on slippery creek stones, curl up with my mother on the sofa, tell you stories on a peeling picnic table while the man with his dog listens avidly. I can listen for as long as she needs me to listen, ask the questions my mother would ask, watch and predict, but even then my skin can't accommodate you. We don't shed our skins in one piece, Chelsea reminds us as Rosie the snake coils around her arm, and we can't swallow watermelons whole, can't spit out the rind. My skin can't swallow you, my muscles can't spit out your skeleton. How do you feel against your skin?