a skin's bad bad hymns

to be scratching at my skin,

at my arms and at my legs,

digging at every dent and every bump

of my scratched up skin

so I can weave my fingers through the stitches

that hold me in one piece,

so I can grab from the sides

and tear it off in pieces,

because the unbearable belittling got to my mind,

and my pores pleaded pain into my mind,

and my hair pulled and strained to leave me,

because the world told them that they should leave me.

to tear off the old layers of wear

is to welcome a new look

at the cost and at the risk of hurt:

blood, exposed, dripping.

but my skin was hurting,

it was being hurt and it was causing hurt,

from its atmosphere and to its own,

so what choice did I have?

but if I bled onto your clothes,

as I begged for your comfort,

by your empathy, you might not care.

but would you be queasy?

stay good