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Rest in peace 
      to all the pieces of me 
            that you’ve met. 
I like to toss them 
      in a box to collect 
            evidence. 
                  It’s something I’ve kept
                     for when I want to reflect
                  on the times
                     I’ve peeled back
                  my own flesh.
Another version within
      forms under the skin.
A tear or a rip 
      starts the shed.
            The transition to new
               removes the old view.
            It’s left in the past
               but not dead.
Wriggle and writhe 
   to make it outside – 
the only way out 
   is through.

Originally written 02/05/2026 and submitted for publication.

Formatting preservation efforts below.