Dear Skin,

Dear Skin,

A thousand pens and needles have scratched your surface.

Some sharp, some smooth.

If I look close enough. Hold you up to the light.

Straight veins are reflected back into my lenses.

Your surface cracks and bends

if I proceed without caution.

Too much pressure and repetitive movement in the same spot

and you’ve got a regretful puncture.

Fresh fluid on a dull surface.

The smell is inviting at first. Urging me to rinse and repeat

but it goes rancid, staler than an abandoned bag of Lay's Classic Potato Chips.

I must take care of you so you can assist me in my darkest days.

I'll fix you. Bandage you up,

kiss your smooth forehead. 

You might even develop a few wrinkles over time

depending on how often you crumble between my palms in dissatisfaction.

A crushed fold, praying for release.

If I'm not careful the wound begins to seep. 

Wiping it away too soon creates an illegible smear along your surface

blocking the spotlight from all the other beauty marks on your exterior. 

Fortunately, when there is no light

I can still feel for you, imagine where the veins are and begin to scratch.

All my thoughts, turned into faint lines across your surface. 


You are a part of me.

I reflect, shed, and rely on you.


You are yellow stained,

college ruled legal paper.


Frosted blue plastic shields unborn ink in my blue Bic pen.

Smooth against the pads of my index finger and thumb,

parched along the textured letters: BIC Round Stic M.

Warm. Smushed in between my palms for good measure.

Ink fills you as my nails dig into my palm for security.

After a while

the shape of my nails is imprinted on the bottom of my palm.

An impermanent sign of my dedication.

Just a reminder that the most beautiful things have their vicious moments.

The more intense my thoughts become,

the faster the gap between my senses and the ink closes,

exposing me to the smell of manufactured ink.

After all, a curved spine is required for writing.  

If I say so myself, my penmanship is unusual. An accurate reflection of me.

Every letter of a word is placed 3 millimeters from the next.

I don't enjoy being too close to people,

but I'm a sucker for a thought provoking conversation.

Similarly, all 26 letters of the alphabet can stand alone proudly,

but when they come together they create what you're looking at right now. 

Spacing is a beautiful thing. 


Writing is my recess.

It's when my inner childish innocence comes out to play.

I learn more about myself,

this world,

and you,

every time I add punctuation marks to the ends of my sentences.

My mind's journal overflows with ideas that you can't yet handle.

I discover hidden truths cowering in the corner of my mind

waiting for watchful eyes to avert their gaze,

so they can come to the forefront of my thoughts unnoticed.

A lightbulb moment.

The unexpected tip of the tongue thought

taking my blue Bic pen on a journey overseas.

I am able to touch the Eiffel Tower

with the looped pattern of my fingerprint

running across those eleven raised letters.


Writing is a translation of the soul.


The four sacred letters that disappear once we lose track of it. 







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