Shed
My skin itches from the inside
out. At the bend
behind my knees the flesh
is raw and itching.
My waist from hips to ribs
is red and tender.
My back, where I cannot
reach, torments.
Nails searching and straining
for purchase, for
relief. I scratch and rub and twitch,
whispering my plea: stop, please stop.
But my skin is pulled taut,
hot from friction. I itch
from the inside out,
a living scab across the wound.
I am wearing my old skin,
my old body, still,
and it chafes. Burlap
and wool, coarse and rough
And wrong. I am beneath all that,
still sewn up tight. Still
itching. Inside me,
something itching to get out,
Ripping and twitching
To get out. Two sets
of nails scratching at
two sides of a door.
Flesh burning and itching,
the skin of this world
still closed. But
soon now, soon,
I shed.
Published in Creation Stories, poems and art by Amy Wray Irish, Green Fuse Press, 2008, and Danta, 2002