Each day, my rotten flesh
Is being picked away.
The scabs blossoming
With their rosy red smiles,
So crystalline
And bright.
And as I shed my winter coat,
The sad mass of green goo,
A figure, raw and sick,
Is left behind.
From thick
To thin.
Now ******
And bare,
Somehow this spring breeze
Is more like poisoned air.
