I had eczema when I was young,

hot pink blooms of it on my thighs, 

its nightmarish blossom staining my fingers. 

 

One time I had a trunk of it on my torso. 

It sprouted at the root of me then stretched 

towards my heart dividing me in two.

 

My dad made me wear gloves at night 

and told my teachers to make sure my hands 

were in view, as if they were thieving.

 

It was a strange condition. It raged then wept,

roaring for attention like a child in divorce 

when facing an inevitable end.  

 

And when it withered, I picked 

and picked as if to peel an existence.