Express The Surface

Dramatic outtakes from my Halloween costume shoot. One photo crisp; one photo soft.

On a totally unrelated note, it's time for sonnet #2 in my sonnet-per-day-during-November project. This one came out unexpectedly, and it's more, uh, gruesome than I would prefer. Consider this a content warning for light gore, body horror, and general anatomical grossness.

Subcutaneous

I have an attachment to my fingers,
the pearl joints and the rough-edged scratching squares.
Nails press into thighs; impressions linger.
If only I could have no skin or hair.

Imagine me as bare-bald as a wound,
all sides sealed up by sticky white cotton.
Very raw, even lashes and lips pruned,
all my girlish pains all but forgotten.

Yet my body stays contained by this sack
of elastic pores, deep follicle roots.
It grows and flakes, expands and stretches back.
I stay special in my new human suit.

This arrangement of too-much disguised flesh
makes my infection harder to refresh.