You’re not seeing
the real, entire me

so here’s a flash
of my flesh—

the bareness I need
to get me a witness
to my duress.

I undress,
distressed:
a naked nerve
clothed only
in my terms.

I’m invisible
in prison clothes
and untrue.

It seems
to be seen
I need
to make a scene

so behold:
this is the skin
I’m living in.

I strip away
the things
I need to lose
to feel found

so that I may
be held—finally—
like a baby.

I’m all the way
down to the skin
of me: I have

come clean.
Can you help me?

Jails have become our major mental health facilities. Everyday my wife and her colleagues deal with people who are in jail not because they have committed heinous crimes, but because they are ill, have no one who can take care of their needs, and have no where to go. They will often shed their prison uniforms—this poem explores possible reasons.