Whispers of the Soul

SA

Stolen Skin

In the quiet of night, I wear a thin disguise,
A skin that feels foreign, beneath unseeing eyes.
It clings to my form like a shadow of shame,
A vessel once known, now stripped of its name.

Once, this skin held laughter, warmth, and grace,
Now it's a prison, a cold, empty space.
It whispers of memories, a haunting refrain,
Of moments that shattered, of innocence slain.

Each scar tells a story, a mark on my soul,
A reminder of battles, the cost of control.
I walk through the world in this armor of dread,
Each touch a reminder of words left unsaid.

Fingers trace boundaries, exploring the line
Between what was stolen and what can be mine.
Yet every caress feels like fire on ice,
An echo of trauma, a roll of the dice.

I search for my essence in this stolen skin,
But find only echoes of where I've been.
A body once cherished now feels like a ghost,
A hollowed-out shell, a memory's host.

I yearn for connection, to reclaim what was lost,
To stitch up the seams, to count up the cost.
But every reflection reveals a mere shade,
Of the person I was, of the joy that I made.

Yet, in the still silence, a flicker ignites,
A whisper of strength, of reclaiming my rights.
This skin may be borrowed, but my spirit is free,
To rise from the ashes and reclaim what's me.

I will wear this skin like a banner of fight,
Transforming my pain into power and light.
For though it was stolen, it's still mine to mend,
A canvas for healing, where my story won't end.

With every breath taken, I breathe back my soul,
Reclaiming the fragments, reclaiming the whole.
No longer defined by the shadows of sin,
In the journey of healing, I'll find my own skin.