I miss how naked,
I’d buzz my head in the bathroom, every few months since the end of everything began.
You checked my blind spots
Your hands used to trace 
the nape of my neck the way the sun
a crystal and casts 
rainbows on the mislaid tile floor

hands as familiar with my body as my own
gently brushing away the torturous hair from my shoulders
before I made of me a martyr
then rubbing, full palm, against the grain of my scalp
through to the core of me in an exquisite
embrace of my unbecoming

I had always been unbecoming something