Wait, let me put my face on

I want to get comfortable,
so I unclasp the hinge
at the back of my head
in the softness where my brain meets my spine,
and pull off my skin.
I start with the face -
precise; thin membrane clinging stickily
to cartilage and bone and the curve of socket -
and stretch it like string cheese over my jaw,
baring jutting chin.
Then the neck, dizzily long.
The knees are easiest:
here you can still see the seams of
delicate filament,
woven taut and straining over
bulging meat.

When it is done I am
small
and hard,
pink and grey and thorny,
bristles like cactus spines over leathery flanks,
and purring at the way the wind ruffles my skin
where it hangs over there
on the outstretched limb of a tree.

 

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