I am in the process of shedding my skin.
Some days it weighs more than the earth.
When she touches it, her fingers scrape along like tuning forks
that vibrate my head and tongue
make it impossible to breathe.
In the shower I turn the water to its ivory heat
and slowly acclimate myself to boiling the nauseating tickle away,
instead of a sickening hum,
my skin sings in pain. And the best measure is when I
reach a dark purple back
right under the sizzling stream.
My skin does not know it’s being shed,
it is healthy and is doing just fine
but I am in the process of shedding my skin
and I curse its resilience and rebirth.
If only that quality of the skin
could so easily be adapted to the mind.