by Nick Gisburne
Another me, a pristine, perfect shape
Is buried in this wrinkled, ragged form
A better body, eager to escape
Impatient, as my weakness keeps it warm
With hope, I pinch and pick and pull and peel
The layers of stagnation, one by one
With each discarded sliver, I reveal
A part of me I thought forever gone
But as I dig, however deep I dive
I do not see the self I long to find
The flesh I flay, discarded, still alive
Does not restore the life I left behind
I sit inside a circle of my skin
My fight with time impossible to win
