Snakes Skin

Snakes.
Oh, how I envy them.
How I long to remove my skin –
Just for a break, just for a minute.

To be a snake would be, exactly, perfect.
When I feel suffocated,
I’d slither out of the old me. Shed it.
And then, be new. Fresh. Clean.

But no. I’m not a snake.
I cannot separate
from the skin I live in.
This is problematic.

Because the old me,
does not fit, In the new me.
My past life, does not match
my new one. This pure one.

My beautiful husband
should not have to touch the skin
that lived through that.
That lived through defilement.

My sweet, innocent children
should not nestle up, lay their faces
to a body that has been
disregarded and trashed.

I do not want them to touch me.
For My skin to serve as a connection
to such brutality and darkness.
I don’t want it to transfer.

And Me. How am I supposed
to live in this skin anymore?
How am I supposed to surrender –
To pleasure. To Motherhood. To joy.

When my skin is always here.
Always trapping me.
Always remembering.
Always.

Oh, how I long
to remove my skin.
Just for a break.
Just for a minute.