I’m thinking of the snake skin I found in the wood pile yesterday.
If that snake is still alive, it’s hibernating right now. But how good it must have felt to sluff off that old skin. To wriggle and push and climb out of its old self, and emerge soft and naked and new.
Then leave the drying skin behind, not giving it a second thought, in the woodpile.
I can’t get far enough away from myself today.
The feel of my clothes touching my body is confining. My hair won’t leave me alone.
I want to shave it all off.
I want to crawl out of my skin.
I run, instead of walking, through the snow hoping to leave myself behind.
I wonder how whatever is inside of me, making me clench my jaw and hold my hands in tight little fists, will find its way out.
Still I go to work. Piecing bits of fabric together so even I am fooled into thinking the person who chose these colors and patterns must have been happy, maybe even joyous.
So there’s hope. If I can create such delight, it must still be somewhere inside of me.
I’ve been though this enough times to know that tomorrow, maybe even later tonight, it will be better. I will feel different.
But until then, I bite off the nail from my index finger, trying to get down to the bone.