Skin Thing.

Selfless, gracious living organ
My skin
That I have scoured, rinsed and dried to within an inch of its life.
This is not only a past reminiscence
But a present admission,
A recitation of mental condition.

The skin I wear
Demonstrative of turmoil I bear
My injurious emotions scraped in like cavern carvings.
Shards of my self-esteem
Show as ruptures on my exo-screen
My follicles, fodder for malevolent fingernails.

Torturously picking at my face, arms and legs
And, sometimes, taking the scorn down to
my chest and neck
Chip-chip-chipping away….

I am imprisoned in plaguing
Shackled to
Destructive necessity.
These scars, most likely, solely I can see
Dressings of bloodied badges upon me.

Learning to look after yourself again,
all the while
Grappling with narratives of guilt, unworthiness, vanity,
undeserving of softness or
Sacred Sublimity-
the trauma embedded in me, the only sin on my flesh-
I strive to release myself every day
From the afflictions so parasitically bound in me
And heal you,
Without and within
My eternal, forgiving friend
My loving, living skin.

Hot water scorches skin red
Ferocious, to wash invisible germs, dead:
Cold only makes them cling and stick.

Towel wrings around hands and arms
To stifle dank beads of disease,
And the deluge of demolishing reflections
Raining from my brain.

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