Skin of a Survivor

The morning after
I unzip my skin
and hang it next to the shower of shame
in which I engulf myself

I cover my red, raw nakedness
with the blanket of fog that muffles my sobs
and clouds the mirror
until I am at last
once again
presentable for the world.

I wrap impenetrable leather
against my wounds and softness
while my deserted skin begins to wither on its hook.
Shamed for allowing cuts
shamed for its purpose and thus its existence.

I slam the door behind me
armor clad
and my skin drops to a cool tile bed
laying in wait until its bruises are no longer obscene
and its scars don’t make me turn away.

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