by Sara Young
I play with the hanging edge of my nail,
Until it tears off, taking the very tip
Of my finger with it, leaving a bloody
Red streak across my ivory skin.
A blotch of crimson
On an otherwise
Spotless, smooth palette,
Like a porcelain plate.
Only, I am not made
of china; though my body
Every bit as much a shell
as a smooth, ivory bowl.
My complexion is closer to paint;
And when I sleep, I dream of clawing
The transparent skin from my face,
With razor-like talons.
And of watching it hang in tatters.
Watching it peel; the layers,
Stripping myself like white paint.