ella b. winters

Full disclosure

My skin wears parchment thin.

Every time it is touched 

by water, you can see

inside, like clearing a spot 

on a fogged-up window. 

And it's ok. I don't mind

exposing my ribcage, my heart, 

my metatarsals, my intestines,

winding and clogged-- I don't startle 

even when my thoughts start

floating into view, a word at a time, 

like sharks swimming past

a porthole in the hull. 

What worries me is what I can't see. 

I contort myself under 

a thin tap trickle, press my face

to the damp patch on the bathroom wall

in desperation. It's been a dry winter,

and there is not enough

moisture in the world 

to reveal me all at once. Each time

a new segment is cleared, another

disappears from view, always 

something just on the periphery,

a dull shimmer, like fish scales

catching an errant sunbeam 

in the twilight zone. 

When I wake up, it’s always 

the same. Drool pooling

on my pillowcase. The room 

is sallow with my shame.