​I have wanted to be rid of the snakeskin
of your fingertips
from the inside of my
​doorknob ever since you left for Cape Town.

You interrupted me
with your sweaty poster-paint hands
​and pulled your sticky
skin over my head
​like a thief's stocking,
​blurring me.

I had no room to breath
the stale air
you left;
​hyperactive bacteria crawling
over my blue lips.  I was numb
​from being squeezed
between your bitten fingernails.

​Later, I wanted to inject you
into the skin you left me in
to ooze out of,
finding myself oily and shapeless:
A sewer puddle without surface tension:
​spreading everywhere.