Skin
I was always careful
not to break my skin.
My frail, eggshell skin.
I never touched,
never felt the wind move my hair.
I never really
breathed, heard, smelt
saw, moved, lived.
I feared the sensations.
Feared the damage
they would cause.
I never grasped life.
I never felt the touch
of a loving hand.
To save my skin.
My skin.
As pale as snow,
as fragile as glass.
I walked the streets,
not really walking,
avoiding all
and touching nothing.
But when one person
tapped my hand
in the street,
a light, decisive tap,
my skin was cracked.
I stared at the cracks,
worried, fearful,
terrified.
I reached over
and touched the crack.
A piece fell
and exploded on the ground.
A single piece, no more.
My skin was broken.
I was revealed.
I looked at the finger.
I touched the area around it,
hesitantly, fearfully.
The skin fractured-
the white, frail skin.
I brushed it off,
and watched it fall
and shatter on the cement.
Gaining strength, I pressed
on the skin, cracking it,
crushing it,
liberating it.
My hands were free-
I reached to my face
and pulled it free,
dropping it on the ground.
I heard for the first time
I smelt for the first time
I saw for the first time.
I tore the remaining skin off,
tossing it aside.
I felt the wind,
breathed the air,
and touched life.
I looked around
at the people
walking aside me,
trying to see
the deliverer.
I only saw skin-
white skin;
skin as white as snow,
as fragile as glass.
I only saw
the downtrodden faces
of people.
I moved to tap,
to touch,
one girl.
She moved softly aside,
fearing my gentle touch.
I retreated,
shocked and hurt,
and stooped to the ground,
to pick up my pieces,
and place them on again,
a fractured shell of my past
protecting me from all.
I felt a touch on my back,
a soft tap,
a saving tap.
I turned my head,
slowly, fearfully.
It was the person.
The one who broke my coating,
who shattered my shell,
who freed my skin.
I dropped the pieces,
and forgot it,
leaving it to the
power of time.
I stood and looked.
My hand was grabbed,
grabbed by a worn hand,
a hand that had seen battle,
yet, gentle and soft,
like a sunrise.
My face changed,
something it has never done.
It twisted itself,
moved my features,
and bent my lips.
It became what I
couldn't have made
with the frail skin-
for it would have cracked.
I made a smile.
I had felt the touch of a loving hand,
one that I would never release.
not to break my skin.
My frail, eggshell skin.
I never touched,
never felt the wind move my hair.
I never really
breathed, heard, smelt
saw, moved, lived.
I feared the sensations.
Feared the damage
they would cause.
I never grasped life.
I never felt the touch
of a loving hand.
To save my skin.
My skin.
As pale as snow,
as fragile as glass.
I walked the streets,
not really walking,
avoiding all
and touching nothing.
But when one person
tapped my hand
in the street,
a light, decisive tap,
my skin was cracked.
I stared at the cracks,
worried, fearful,
terrified.
I reached over
and touched the crack.
A piece fell
and exploded on the ground.
A single piece, no more.
My skin was broken.
I was revealed.
I looked at the finger.
I touched the area around it,
hesitantly, fearfully.
The skin fractured-
the white, frail skin.
I brushed it off,
and watched it fall
and shatter on the cement.
Gaining strength, I pressed
on the skin, cracking it,
crushing it,
liberating it.
My hands were free-
I reached to my face
and pulled it free,
dropping it on the ground.
I heard for the first time
I smelt for the first time
I saw for the first time.
I tore the remaining skin off,
tossing it aside.
I felt the wind,
breathed the air,
and touched life.
I looked around
at the people
walking aside me,
trying to see
the deliverer.
I only saw skin-
white skin;
skin as white as snow,
as fragile as glass.
I only saw
the downtrodden faces
of people.
I moved to tap,
to touch,
one girl.
She moved softly aside,
fearing my gentle touch.
I retreated,
shocked and hurt,
and stooped to the ground,
to pick up my pieces,
and place them on again,
a fractured shell of my past
protecting me from all.
I felt a touch on my back,
a soft tap,
a saving tap.
I turned my head,
slowly, fearfully.
It was the person.
The one who broke my coating,
who shattered my shell,
who freed my skin.
I dropped the pieces,
and forgot it,
leaving it to the
power of time.
I stood and looked.
My hand was grabbed,
grabbed by a worn hand,
a hand that had seen battle,
yet, gentle and soft,
like a sunrise.
My face changed,
something it has never done.
It twisted itself,
moved my features,
and bent my lips.
It became what I
couldn't have made
with the frail skin-
for it would have cracked.
I made a smile.
I had felt the touch of a loving hand,
one that I would never release.