skin

last night i scratched my arm
open into a door way, went inside
& found a second room with nothing
but a mattress on the floor--
the rash had grown door knobs before
but not like this. my arm spoke,
it asked me where i would go when 
i was all alone & left with just
my own nails & an urge to feel peace. 
i'm reminded of poison ivy,
the way it finger painted itself
up my dad's legs in the summer,
i dip my hands in & cover myself.
skin turning angry & red-- pink 
a field of strawberries, i plant
the seeds in my wrists & grow extra digits.
the room with the mattress is cold
& i lay on the hard wood floor.
i ask god what he wants to do with me
& he sends an angel to tie 
my hands behind my back. the angel 
sings as he works & i squirm. he says
that we just have to wait it out,
that i just need to be patient 
& avoid the temptation of doors. 
flesh turned pandora on me & inside
i feel all the beautiful evils,
the strawberries, the finger nails
culling my arms for fruit. i want
to be left alone to fall into an 
infinite number of small vacant rooms.
give me an arm chair in the next one
so that i can sit upright while
i wait for morning to come. 
the angel just watches, shakes
his head & perches in the corner.
he is also a strawberry but he won't
admit it. i grow desperate for a mirror
& i cry onto the floor into
a puddle so that i can have a look 
at myself. my body all ornamented 
in rash-- decorated in blemishes,
i don't need to be lovely
but i do want my skin to stop 
it with its so many mouths,
always talking, begging to be 
torn open-- of wrapping paper 
i've been a birthday & an orange
peel-- juice spurting on the floor.
the angel pasts the bed & encourages
me to sleep. i give in after some
protesting & my own bed returns
in my own room. the sun rises first in
my bones-- surfacing on skin--
red & tempting. could i sleep
my way into another body?
the angel is a pigeon
on the windowsill.