SKIN

I have always had skin problems. Not acne, but scars and discomfort. For some reason that only the secret gods know, I was born into a flesh that feels like a jail cell. Most days, this body is trying to shut down. Barely breathing. Aching.

I would like to say that I could shed like a snake, and feel some kind of newness, but I am - and always have been - worn out.

I was busy reading the paper and smoking pipes in the womb. I held knowledge where most people only held curiosity. And the world has tried to kill my aged soul.

Someday I hope to think of myself as a fine wine. Maybe I am an acquired taste, but what is not?

In the evening, I sit and stare at white walls like they are the night sky. I wish on the imperfections I can find in the paint job.

In the mornings, I sigh a sigh of relief and grief. I am relived that I have survived, but grieved that it seems to be all I can do - survive.

I am uncomfortable. I am imperfect. I am aged far beyond my years. I am an acquired taste. Sip on me. Tell me that I am here for more than labored breathing and scar tissue. No one can tell by looking at me that I am cursed, but maybe it is everyone else who is cursed. Maybe I will be the cure. Maybe I am the antidote to the worlds ignorance.

Until the moment of purpose passes, I will wait and bleed. I will burn down and float atop the same waters that try to pull me under every day.

-AshleyAnne