I wish my skin peeled as beautifully as yours does -- long, transluscent, shimmering pieces easily balled and thrown away, or kept, if one wished, used as a graft or sewn together into a raincoat.

No, my raw mess is just that -- a raw mess. Snowing flakes of myself onto the seat of my chair in a never ending storm agitated by my hand, twisted about to reach the itch that never ceases, rubbing away layer after layer until I hit bottom or I hit bone. I imagine grasping my own spine one day and scratching the crap out of it as well.