uneasy kleptomaniac

the criminal always returns to the scene of the crime.
months fall from my pockets
and break to bits under my shoes on the doormat.

unbutton my skin,
hang it on a hook behind the silent sliding doors
(which they will lock at eight-thirty)
and wade down the corridor in the hollows of old footprints.

this place has both my DNAs on file.
i sit inside-out and hold my breath.
underneath the blood-pressure cuff my pulse thrums its guilt.
a fresh vial of blood like a confession
and still nobody has blinked at its aqueous thievery.
i have got away with it again.

i refasten my skin.
run my hands over the illicit years
stitched into its lining.
feel its familiar bulky weight.

on the bus home, i roll a loose button between my fingers.