If I Must Stay Alive

Photo by Andriy Boechko on Unsplash

The skin around me loosens
Falls
into pools around my ankles.
Rough and thickened, I examine the burned
patches by the thighs,
like shapes of tie-dye greys.
Its spiked edges by the elbows and knees
are rusted, I brush the pads
of my thumbs over them
lightly,
remembering the number of points on each
joint, count the times they drew blood,
in my head, confuse mine for theirs and
theirs for mine, but never mind
Blood is blood —
ambrosia on any man’s tongue.
By the tips of its toes, I
pick it up, fold it neatly,
inwards
hide the spikes and the scales,
cover scars and scabs
then tuck it underneath my bed-frame drawer
locked away,
the war is over.