scratch

I wear white cotton mitts
to bed, an archivist of sleep,
butter my trunk
with a glassy wax

dressed in gauze I slip
into unrest, chapped lips
slicked with grease,
sitting with the itch until
my skin starts to prickle,
something inside
working its way out

ungloved, I rasp the folds
between limbs, dream
stepping out of myself,
skin falling about me
like a peeled rind

I wake up inside a snow angel
the sheets blooming with blood poppies,
crusty crimson petals,
my body suffering the shame
of being legible, raised welts
read like braille betraying
these gristly midnight abrasions