Peeled Skin Poem

UV rays soak into my skin, browning it slightly over the course of an afternoon, like a french fry. But, more often than not, I soak in a little too much, turning the sexy pigmentation into a blotchy, beat-red reminder of my fair, acne-prone skin. Looking like a lobster does have its payoffs, eventually, though. When my damaged cells die, they either flake off or become able to be peeled instead. Before, my only commonalities to tubers, was getting baked and plopping down on a comfy couch. Perhaps I'll cook up some "skin chips," all natural, salted by my sweat. The tactile ecstasy of divorcing the ghost-white patches from the rest of my body is addictive enough to prompt me to "forget" the sunscreen on following visits to the beach.