You burn your face

You fall asleep on a beach.
You know
as soon as you wake up;
around your eyes, dead skin screams
like children at a playground.

You spend several days watching
wallpaper peel, cedar shingles flake.
Cracks in the facade spread like wildfire,
expose raw wood
that’s never seen the harmful light of day.

You pick at it
after telling yourself not to.
Oils in your fingers cause
a pimple by the corner of your mouth
like a bullet’s indentation in a street sign.

You see it in the bathroom mirror
as you wash your hands.
Twenty seconds with a stranger.
Another in the surface
of the medicine cabinet.