Skin
by Abigail Davis
My Skin tells a story like the Lukasa
It’s curves and ridges reminds me their origins
Each intricate bump is connected to a memory
These memories it holds are ones of malice
Often, your skin retains the worst experiences
A nasty fall off a bike or a mistake in the kitchen
It’s funny like that because it makes known to me and everyone the worst of myself
But It grows with me and maintains my being
My skin keeps the scars I have given myself like unbearable secrets
Daring to be known by ultimately hidden
These scars chase away any hope of moving on
How can one live in the constant shadow of their past?
I am not wearing my heart on my sleeve
I am wearing my sins on my skin
I am a building whose facade is warning and laden with mistake
These scars are inscrutable
Skin is meant to grow and repair seamlessly
Unless it is trauma that impacts it
Then it holds onto it as if it is treasure and tells its treasure hunt
Trauma is not the story we want to be told about ourselves
There is no treasure in trauma
it takes unforgivingly and does not ask for permission
Suddenly my skin feels misplaced
As if I am not the person whose story it is telling
I reject the fabric which overlays me
I do not wish to be reminded of its contents
To never be born into the skin that I’m in
Is the only way which I could ever be happy