I look down at my body
and see discolored flesh.
with bruises that never fade;
razor cuts made by unsteady hands trying to shave
circular scars on my knees;
hand and foot callouses;
bulging, blue river after downpour veins;
loose, onion paper skin
that sags and deepens into canyons and ridges;
and crows stand on my eyes, invisible.
My nails are sharp and jagged,
freshly cut into
I take my hips in my hands and
it’s like ripping apart old pillowcases,
pulling off layers:
The skin over my hands comes loose and,
over bird bone and delicate blood piping,
is shiny pink.
With white hair comes scalp,
and slowly black locks return.
I chafe off the death that rests on the inside of my elbows,
My lungs regrow;
my breath returns.
My heart beats like a cyclist’s.
I’m calm as a child in the summer sun.