The Second Shedding

The sheet was a fever last night,

a flat, white weight on the red of my back.

I couldn't turn left or find any light

that didn't make the dry skin crack.

Now I am at the desk, ignoring the screen,

thumbing the edge of a shoulder blade peel.

It comes away silent, a translucent sheen,

separating the raw from the real.

I’m making a heap of myself on the wood,

little scraps of a Tuesday in June.

I'd stop if I thought that I actually should,

but the new skin is coming too soon.