Get out the kid gloves

My surface is rough today,
as if the unifying plastic
has burned away,
leaving my fibers exposed --
nerve endings, looking fuzzy,
but brittle to the touch --
I find I'm reluctant to even touch,
let alone to lift the latch
and peer into the damage that lies below.
What else has melted in these flames?
What other truths
that were keeping me afloat
have been damaged
in this latest conflagration?
I think I'll take a moment to breathe
before I get out the kid gloves --
this one may still be too hot to touch.


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