Your skin doesn't fit. You split
your right brain off, told it to find
a new home. It's really too bad you
can't do the same
with all the bits of yourself you hate:
expel your nose, your round baby cheeks,
cut away the pieces of flesh that don't quite sit
the way you think they ought to,
send away the scar over your innermost metacarpal, the
bones in your too-small wrists,
and you may evict your uncooperative mind as well, since it
doesn't think it belongs in a body anyway.
Drop your fragile eyes over there, leave a trail of anxiety
and wire-thin nerves behind you, scalp yourself and bite
off your fingertips, shake all your insecurities out
like too much seasoning. They smell sweet, but
leave your head spinning.

You find a mole on your hip.
Add it to the list.
You are a catalog of bad habits, ill qualities, mismatched pieces;
don't you wish
you could strip them all off in peeling scales
like so much useless, sunburnt skin –