Husk

Husk:

 

Within this kiln, I bake

Becoming warm copper.

I have not yet wilted enough though,

So I scald and carve arid flesh

Until ash blonde pinches my nerves.

 

My legs haven’t begun to melt.

I’ve taken to grazing bruises with torrid palms,

Just above the knee,

Slapping the burn into them

The same heat I used to shed every summer

While holding the sun-parched edges apart

So as to shimmy underneath,

Careful to preserve the webbed intricacies.

 

Tonight, I long to be sterile

Like doctors-office-jitters and rubbing alcohol

Let this chamber shuck the four sticks of deodorant

From these still-rancid arm pits.

Surely, I am stagnant and unclean.

 

I’ve sworn at them all.

Still, I sponge my eyes with liquid soap,

Which drips from my right n****e

Taken to flaking, given the fact

I refuse to swab these yellowed corners.

Instead, I punch holes

In all the right places, scrapping the withered

Parchment of a sellout.