I hate this skin, pale as the moon in the night,
A canvas washed in bleach, too cold, too bright.
It's a shroud of snow that won't go away when the frost is there,
A chalky veil I cannot bear.
Each pore a blank, unwritten page,
Devoid of fire, devoid of rage.
It mirrors clouds that never burn,
A ghostly tide with no return.
I envy earth, rich brown and deep,
Where roots can stretch, where seeds can sleep.
But mine's a field, all salted white,
That shrivels in the harshest light.
The sun avoids my flesh with scorn,
A silent mist, a faded blue
I long to wear the dusk, the earth,
To bathe in warmth, to know rebirth.
But I am made of brittle light,
A fragile thread in the endless night.
This skin, it holds no song, no drum,
A silent chord that leaves me numb.
Like ash that settles, grey and still,
It smothers every spark, every will.
Oh, let me shed this frosted shell,
Where shadows cling, where echoes dwell.
For I am not this snow-white skin,
I am the storm that rages within.
