Another layer’s stripped

away, as through attrition,

until the grain of my skin

bleeds through, a botched tattoo.

Randomly, I pick a book

off the shelf and read notes

from decades ago I left

in the margins, and wonder:

who was I then to write

myself into a text so poorly;

while knowing, I am

no different now.

I am nude on a stair,

descending into myself.