Everyone is born in a specific skin. Some leave it untouched all their lives, however most do not. Many leave their skin ruined, marking it with scars, stretching it with implants, taking it away with surgery, or inking it with pictures. I have done none of those things. I have taken care of it, yet it still peels. No one else has peeling skin like mine. Not even girls as pale as snow, scorched by the sun's blazing heat have skin that peels as mine does. It peels the more I get lazy, even bubbling as I wear my brothers shirts. I try and stay away, even wear makeup and dresses instead. But it makes millions of bugs crawl under my skin, makes every inch blister under the scrutiny of those around me. I resist the urges as best I can, but I find myself back there. In my brothers room while he's at work, sneaking shirts from his closet. It soothes the burning in my pores, relieves the ache in my bones, leaving behind only an itch. My skin is peeling. I use his deodorant, coat myself in his body spray. My skin is peeling. I cut my hair, get ridiculed at school. My skin is peeling. My mom yells. My skin is peeling. Bruises blossom on my jaw, my eye, anywhere my abusers can reach. A rich dark purple, ugly in the light of day but beautiful in the glow of the moon. My skin is peeling. I'm homeless, fighting to eat and look presentable for school. My skin is peeling. I try and change, but my ashen skin revolts, burning hot when I try and wear my old skirts. My skin is peeling. Why is it peeling? Why can't I be a normal girl? Why cant, or won't, anyone help me? Why can't they see the swirling pits of agony in my eyes when I wear the things they think I should? My skin is peeling. Peeling. I can't stop the peeling. There's no end to the gross skin hanging off me, gray and bruised. I'm peeling. I grip the scraps of skin hanging loosely from my body and start pulling. My anger is white hot, my sadness bone deep. What lies beneath this gray peeling shell? It does not hurt, it's oddly soothing. I stand in the rest stop bathroom, trying not to let the swirling abyss in my chest make me collapse in on myself. The mirror I watch myself through is grime, the flickering light overhead casting a dismal glow. I scrape at my skin, pulling it off in thick layers. As I do, my body reforms. Everything clicks into place as i stand in a pile of my gray skin, having shed it like a snake. Everyone is born with a specific skin. I was born with 2. Ten minutes ago I was the girl with peeling skin. Now? I'm the boy that shed it.
