Second Degree

The mirror is foggy from the heat of the shower

and my shoulders are a map of a terrible day.

I stayed on that boat for hour after hour

because you were smiling and I wanted to stay.

Now I’m standing here peeling a strip of myself,

a long, clear ribbon of skin like a snake.

The aloe is useless on the bathroom shelf,

with a pump that is jammed and a head that won't shake.

I’m shedding the version of me that was kind,

the one who stood still while the sky turned to red.

It’s a slow, stinging labor to leave it behind,

and crawl with this heat in my bones toward the bed.