My skin it’s all pulled tight

My skin, it’s all pulled tight,

like old leather left in the sun.

Every movement a crackle, not right,

this tired body, never done.

Then in the drawer, behind the expired

syrup, a plastic tub, half-gone,

label peeling, vaguely desired.

Vaseline. Petroleum. Dawn

of some old memory.

I scoop it, clear and thick, onto a finger,

it sits there, refusing to sink in.

Just a film, a greasy linger,

a desperate, ineffective skin.

It feels like a lie against the itch.

Just a thin, silent, stubborn glitch.