Binding Skin

My skin, the cover of my soul’s pages, is soft

leather binding, knitted together 

by the Expert Craftsman,

protecting secrets from            

salty tear streaks

and perspiration,

aggressive sunbeams

and biting winds,

prodding noses

and heartbreak


only I have flipped through these pages,

except him,

the one my soul opened for,

letting him examine the rawness 

of emotion inside me,

deciphering the smudged script

written by my shaky left hand


his revisions were subtle,  at first

just the change of a verb  or two,

until    he found the heart of 

my story,    tucked deep within 

the meaty pages of my flesh,

and with the  flip      of a page,

the plot    twisted,    as he        unexpectedly 

      ripped pages        from my spine,

erasers      burned and lead poisoned

   as he edited         me out of     my own     story,

penciling  in     his version     of       me



I       slammed     shut,

preventing his  destructive hands

     from tearing   more holes   in

                       my story,

and now     

              I’m alone,

 in the painful      process

of   revising     myself,

    pen  in  hand as I dip into

the    blood of  the wounds    he left me,

writing over    the scars, a tear in my heart,

  desperately trying    to make 

        what once      was  beautiful,

beautiful again



my soul   may never open

for another, but I will find comfort 

in this skin that     binds me,

the cover   strengthening with time,

until     when I’m old,

and gravity pleats this leather    casing me,

ink fading    with my memory as

     the binding gives way,

letting loose all my      secrets to

mending hands comforting my

      mangled body    on crisp white sheets,

as my last   page is filled,

  my final sentence   written,

only to be    followed by 

a heavenly epilogue, 

written by the Author of Life,

in a celestial script of liquid gold,

on crisp white pages,

in a new skin that forever 

binds me to Him. 

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