Dysmorphia

Dysmorphia

My neck stiffens like chalk.
I feel my skin crackling,
flaking off,
the only snow falling in this hot sun.
My hands move to help,
to find a way to keep my beach ball
head from plunging
to the stones screaming beneath me.
I pause,
a corkscrew tongue pleading
to be let out;
a neck wanting to crack in two;
hands longing to become nurses.
Each without a single clue
that they are each against the other.
Parts in epic war.

I like it. I would get rid of the last line (or make it less awkward, but honestly the penultimate line is a nice closure) - but this is just my opinion.

Thanks, Charles!

If you figured this out, you are already talking about someone else. Need to be upfront. Good luck.

I'd close with the fourth to last line, with the hands wanting to be nurses. What follows seems anti-climactic. We're all sick of the word "epic," and we're certainly tired of war.