Like snake that sloughs off skin against a stone
we feel it loosen, tear a little. Scratch.
There is a thought that we must sometimes catch
and hold a little pressed against the bone
that cages head or heart. It is not true
we won’t get free. The tatters that we wear
will fray away. Disposable as hair
we wind round finger, drop into the loo
and flush away. The itching drives you mad
the tatters pull away like scab from knee
when you were five – and this was true for me
will be for you. Night terrors you have had
bound trapped disgusting never free – scales, dust.
Raw pink beneath. Believe this, love – you must.