I wish I was a snake.

Beneath sheets, I bare
no arms,
no intent,
only a limp acceptance of the days
movements, and skin.

Freckles dot my shoulders,
more recently exposed to what was arguably 'summer',
and the bruises that bloom on my thighs from work are
worn as yellowing trophies for
"Most Improved" and "Team Player of the Year".

I wish I was a snake.
Belly flat and slithering,
and shedding, never old.