My skin gets up to all sorts when I’m not looking.
It holds my bits in, stops my bones drowning.
I wake up with scratches from nightmares.
You trim the wispy hairs off the back of my neck.
My wispies. You pop my insecurities
like the black heads on my chest.
When my beard hairs don’t want to face the world
and grow back to the other side of my skin
only your fingers (and tweezers)
know what to do.

© Carl Burkitt 2020