Skin-stealing is an art.
I pick mine fresh—
grief-scented, tear-tanged.
Being loved makes them last longer.

Painting is another matter.

New-spelled skin is soft, supple
with the shadow of life. Ink holds,
poring into crevices, tracing features
stamped from the gaze in another’s eyes.

The faces I paint are beautiful.
Willow brows and limpid eyes,
lips—a kiss of full-ripened cherry,
parted in a velvet sigh.

I know how to beguile, with
these shells I borrow. Desire holds
ink in place. Someone has to want
this face, this body, for it to want to stay.

Unloved, skin hardens—crackling
as rot cackles through; years
descending in a matter of days.
I always know when my time is due.

It is not today.

This skin glows, inviting as new-pressed silk
awaiting a brush’s first graze.
I ignore the pull of a stranger’s face,
and paint instead, my own.

The lines run, like they always do, fluid
as memory. Eyes dragging low, lids
seeping into nose, marbling into mouth.
A ceaseless unforming.

I watch the mirror,
heart tight. Clenched fists–
unclench. Wash the stains.
Begin again.