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
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
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.