Overexposure

I spent the whole day moving his crates,

a favor for a guy who never pays his debts.

Now the sun is demanding a pound of flesh,

and my skin is a map of my own regrets.

I pull the cotton over my head in the dark,

and the fabric grit feels like a serrated knife.

There’s a sharp white line where the sleeve began,

the only part of me that didn't pay for his life.

My shoulders are humming a hot, red tune,

blisters forming like tiny, fluid-filled glass.

I’m glowing in the bathroom mirror’s light,

a fool who let the shadows pass.