Flayed Map

A phantom heat, across my shoulders, tight,

a sudden memory, sharp and red.

The worst one, where the skin took flight

in curling sheets, leaving what was bled

behind, exposed. Like a map flayed open,

all the small roads, raw and new.

I couldn't sleep, couldn't be spoken

to, just lay there, a bruised, hot hue.

The skin stretched thin, a living drum,

then cracked and peeled, like paper torn.

It left me pale, almost numb,

a new layer, painfully born.

And even now, the sun can feel like that.