The Second Layer

The aisle smells like aloe and plastic.

A man in a tank top

has shoulders the color of a brick,

his heat reaching toward the cold medicine.

I remember the creek,

the way the water didn't feel like a warning.

By Tuesday, my back was a sheet

of wet, gray paper.

I sat on the edge of the bed

and watched the skin come away.

Small, clear flakes

settled on my blue shirt like salt,

drifting off a body

that didn't want its own roof anymore.