If the snake could talk, he’d tell you the
first several times he shed his skin were
painful. It’s not now, but he still has the
memory. To lose a piece of you is an ache
you can’t put into words. He would say,
child, growing hurts no matter how you
do it. All that stretch. The tug-of-war
with your skin. I could make this pretty,
say there are valleys and rivers sprouting
beneath you. But I’m tired of turning pain
to beauty. When I press my finger to the
bruise, it only hurts. I shed my skin and
turn to walking pulse. Throb. Raw skin
and stretch marks. Clean, again. This
time: No tears. There’s no use in crying
over nature doing it’s job. The skin
becomes too snug, too tight around the
throat, so you shed it or you constrict and
lose your ability to breathe. The snake says,
you can’t fit back into dead skin. There’s no
blood or life there. Your heartbeat has to
rewrite itself to fit this new body.