Today I have to crawl back in,
To indulge again in skin, slimy, loose,
Wrinkled saggy skin.
I could lift it in great handfuls,
Feel the muscles, the blood, the everything,
The clammy coldness beneath my fingers.
It makes me sick to the mind;
I want to crawl back out again and run
But there is nothing left to run on, to run to,
Only something uglier than this.
I want to claw it off, the itching in my arms. Scratching,
Scratching at raw flesh, raw muscle,
Exposed veins, all stuck beneath my fingernails.
It is disgusting.
It is inconsequential.
It’s skin.
We did some poetry exercises as part of my creative writing class and one of them was to write a piece in the style of the confessional poets. I tried, but I feel like I always use the same images when trying to explain these emotions.