I needed to understand that inside this skin
in which I sin, win and internalise… things.
Destroy at whim
in spite of Him,
curse like a sailor, spit with vim, rejoice like a saint, tune like a hymn.
I must tolerate it: the tight, brash texture of this skin.
No matter how far from light and bright and right it is,
I must care for it.
Be there for it at all times.
Even when it becomes rough and hard to trace I must keep it in place
because without it, I am erased.
This skin is all I am and all I’ll ever be because it both encapsulates and sets me free.
Keeps my secrets like a diary so faithfully thus I never fear a leak.
It tweaks on me.
From bounteous and great
to unhinged and afraid
cold and dry
like the patch of grass in shade.
Laid to rest and dormant
but still as communicative as can be.
It’s my only informant
the first tell-tale in hinting what’s wrong with me.
The first thing I see and feel.
The first thing I be and will.
The first thing I hurt and heal.
The first thing I strike and shield.
The first thing I defend and wield.
My weapon of mass destruction… for real.
It’s the coin I deal.
My food without meal.
The wind with no mill.
My only thrill.
My support of a sill.
All that I have internalised and all that I spill.
I’m learning to love it in its entirety.
Trying not to feel so much discomfort when in it.
Even when it’s tired and drying I want to stay and stick with it.
Relive it, be with it, embrace it, kick with it.
I’m with it, for the long run, and that’s just it.