a purging

I will peel you off, old skin.
Wrinkled, dry, useless
You have outlived your function
and have started to confine me

I start small
a light itch, really
I feel a crackle of
dried up sensations

I dig in more
and press against something sharp
I draw blood
but I know it’s working

I see a flap, an opening
and I grab it with my hand
with one yank
I start to pull


A scream leaps out
as the skin brings more blood
more tears
I rip faster, harder



I’m vulnerable.

My skin is raw
oozing with pink and red
I take a deep breath

I am free.

for him

how in the world did I lose six pounds?
it could not be walking up the stairs every morning
it’s only two flights to the office
neither is it with lifting weights twice a week
I should have gained more muscle than lose weight
it could not be walking less than a kilometre home
all I got for it every time is a sweaty back
now I remember
it’s from thinking of you the entire time
I do these other activities
thinking too much translates into

nervous energy that burns

[Disclaimer: I’m NOT a poet. Poetry is a huge personal Waterloo. In fact, a few years ago, I was traumatized from writing poetry (THAT would probably be in another post…someday). It’s only a few weeks ago that I’ve tried my hand again in this genre, and this is one of them. I’m still not confident, though. Any feedback on this particular piece? I’m certainly looking at this one as a work-in-progress.]