In October the skin peels back. I watch
as it flakes from bloody knuckles—
it won’t grow fast until spring, months—
months.
I lose sleep, the tingle of raw skin
under Mama’s lotion. Rub it off
on winter’s dirty sheets and crack
again and again. I learn to pretend
I like the tingle of balm on blood
and apply the sting myself; say
I outgrow my parent, as if
the woman who raised me teaches
only to repair this body, these
cracks.
I am always learning
how the skin splits open, those little smears
of blood always a surprise and bright
on chapped, gray days. It lies to me—or else
I fool myself—says crimson means more
than the chafe of air against this sky—
skin—
my cells are too small to see
clearly. They care for themselves as I tend—
pretend—to the bleeding.
Poem by Ariadne Will
Image by Adam Strong
Backwards Trajectory 