Skin

It's remarkable how each individual has a layer of porcelain, chocolate, olive.

How it can all look the same, yet be so different.

Take off the clothes, the makeup, the tattoos, everything.

Until all you can see is the flesh we were born in.

Our skin tells others of our past, of our present.

My arms,

are littered with red and white marks from the time I starved myself for months.

My breasts and torso,

have the same markings, but from the time I actually took care of myself.

My wrists. My wrists have invisible scars on them.

Invisible from the time I gave up hope.

My thighs,

my thighs have white scars that appear when I trace over them with my fingertips.

To serve as a reminder that I was never enough. That I never will be.

And sometimes, just sometimes, those scars come back to life.

Spilling crimson onto the white sheets, creating new lines with each cut.

Reminding me that maybe someday, somehow, I'll stop creating those lines of destruction upon my skin.