Skin

Sometimes it feels like this body hasn’t got my back
My face painted with red,
my skin starts to crack
My soft shell is breaking
screaming, aching
This fragile case is angry with me
It whispers sharply:
Stop what you’re doing
You’re doing it wrong
You’re hurting me.
It wants me to stop
doing the things I love.
Everything I touch
Everywhere I go
seems to push my body
into fight mode.
So I close the doors
I stay inside, I hide away
It hurts just as much
to have people stare anyway.
But still it continues to thrive
so I tend to it day and night
Desperately flitting from ointment to oil, to medicine, to potion.
Removing, reforming my diet
but every treatment,
seems just a dreamed-up, imaginary notion.
Still it punishes me night after night
I lay awake
as this angry porcelain shell continues to shout
I try to close my eyes
Shut out these thoughts of poison
Push away the shame and vanity
that betrays the strength
I fought so hard for.
That leaves me bitter and envious
of innocent people
who surely
are all struggling too.
This skin of mine
making me feel ugly inside and out
inside and out
inside and out.

Published by

Twigg

wandering, laughing, boycotting evil, environmentalism, puns, vegetarianism, writing, annoying whoever will stick around long enough, writing music, singing, innuendo, busking, snowboarding and awkward leaning are all things I'm either enjoying or attempting with varying degrees of success.

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