molting

i am ashen;
dry,
a corpse-like complexion crawls
across my skin,
flakes.

and then i pick,
pick away,
another bad habit,
i'll fix it another day.

my body is a scab,
don't you see?
a scar,
a few years down the road.
is this the price of,
what?
i've made no deal.

and yet it peels away,
and though i expect blood
i am treated to a new
layer of skin,
raw,
soon i am enveloped by a new beginning.

but the tenderest skin
is the hardest to maintain.
and in a few days
my failure is apparent - scars, slashes, scabs,
all my own.

again i will molt.
but i am living the same day over
and over
and over.

and over.