Dry Paint

The shirt, cotton, thin,

sticks a little, pulls at the edge.

This morning, in the glass, a pale line

like a forgotten pledge.

A translucent curl, a ghost of skin,

peeled from the shoulder's peak.

A landscape of dry scales within,

a slow, quiet leak.

It catches on the collar, small,

a fragment, nearly clear.

This new skin underneath, so raw,

feels suddenly too near.

I pick at it, a restless hand,

leaving a tender spot.

Just another piece of me, unplanned,

drying on the spot.