The Skin

I can feel it.
New beginnings, new people, all are beyond the horizon.
New things, new sensations, a new life.
That's not really all it's cracked up to be.

I can feel it.
Old acquaintances, old occupations, beginning to wear thin.
Old patterns, old locales, an old mindset.
Letting them go isn't as freeing as you'd think.

For with every departure, hooks tug at the skin.
Some of it's dead, some of it was still attached, fearful to show itself.
The small openings are dug into, and sheet and sheet
and sheet of skin comes off.

For time is not a precise animal, and exfoliation runs too deep.
The bits attached don't give up willingly, and as such, draw blood.
All in service to make new skin grow, and yet, molt begets molt
begets molt, in a neverending cycle.

How strange, knowing that even the things I regret are all in service of this.
The new me happily springs forth, seeing as it was waiting for the old me to die.
Cuts are sealed up, and what's left are scars that I can point to.
Explanations of the person I was, which will surely involve the person I am now.

How horrid, knowing that there is still a deep, deep tragedy within this.
I think of all the people I was before I was this, seeing as they led me here.
I had sloughed so much to get here, yet how much am I supposed to mourn?
Perhaps I can hold the tragedy in one hand, and the necessity in the other.

I feel it.
For my skin is a collage of what is dead and what is new.
How beautiful, knowing that I still have many more skins to shed.