Overexposed

I can’t turn my head

without the skin screaming.

It’s a dry, tight heat that lives

in the meat of my shoulders now.

In the mirror, I’m a map of mistakes.

A single flake of me drifts down

like a piece of grey ash

from a fire that’s finally out.

The white lines where the straps were

look like ghosts

against the angry, blistered field.

I am molting in the dark.