Slow Release

The edges have turned into a fuzzy gray hem,

catching the loose wool of my sleeve.

It’s been there long enough to become part of me,

a tan, plastic shield for a mistake.

I pull.

The skin stretches like a rubber band,

the fine hairs of my forearm snapping one by one.

It’s a slow, stinging divorce.

When it’s gone, there’s a sticky square of filth

left on the wrist, a stubborn border

that says something happened here, and it’s still not quite right.