Barrier Method

My finger hit the bottom of the jar,

scraping the last of the grease from the glass.

I’ve got this papercut, a tiny scar

that won't stop stinging every time I pass

a hand over my jeans. I smeared the slick

and heavy jelly over the split in the skin,

watching it disappear. It’s a cheap trick,

building a wall to keep the outside from getting in,

but it works for a while. I caught my reflection

and saw where I’d wiped a smudge on the rim

of the mirror—a cloudy, blurred rejection

of my own face. Everything’s getting dim

and greasy. I’m coating my knuckles, my heels,

anywhere the world tries to rub me raw.

It’s a strange kind of safety, how it feels

to be slippery enough to escape the law

of friction. I leave a trail of myself on the door

and the light switch, a shiny, translucent mess

that says I was here, but I’m not anymore,

hiding behind a layer of synthetic address.