After years of patient scratching,
I sloughed off enough dead skin
to sculpt an eczema replica of myself
from the accumulated crumbs.
He rustles like a husk with every step
and spits a tiny blizzard from his lips.
I gently take his boneless hand,
careful not to crush his fingers
when he leans in close to whisper
all his dessicated dreams and
nightmares dripping moisturizer.
He hopes one day to be a father,
watch the spores of his descendents
peel away and let the breezes
pluck their bodies, fluttering
across the raw and itchy landscape.
In the meantime, I prepare to
make another doppelganger,
dropping keratin slivers into
a large glass jar whenever I clip my nails.