I see it,
feel it,
my skin speaking up
where my thoughts fail me
– at least the ones I can form into words –
something is wrong
we are hiding something
I try to hear what my skin has to tell me
but I do not speak the language
of these quiet white flakes,
these dumb red rashes,
so I feel as if I’m in some unfamiliar building
with an alarm going off
and no one around me is moving
I can treat the symptoms with cream,
lay it on thick
and prevent the worst
by wearing gloves when I wash up.
Although I much prefer to go without,
to get the sting of satisfaction
feeling smooth ceramic through the hot water’s stream.
I know there is something I’m not seeing;
some stress I must have buried some time in 2019.
I thought I was doing well, then,
Pandemic was a board game,
Suicide a drink (or a workout,
depending who you ask)
but some small misery, maybe, started it all for me.
I do my best to feel it out,
sometimes stay quiet, stare at leaves
I offer forgiveness to the skin
and gratitude for its openness;
for its loyalty to stay with me
even when I don’t understand,
even though all I can do is scratch the surface.