Most people don't know skin
Not the soft, plush crimson that conforms over your bones
Not the landscape of silky seams that barricades us from our ribcage
And the polish of crevices and mountains that form the silhouette of a frame
No, not the flawless outside of skin
Most people don't know the interior
The plague of blood and thoughts that skin clings and traps beneath its surface
To stretch over the enigmas and puzzles of our wandering minds
The brutal, distasteful underside
Forgotten, like dirt swept below a rug
We carve labyrinths out of inky tears and running faucets
So much that we become our own tears
Dripping and slithering down slick and morose paths
Running along the fingertips of the ones who surround us
Only letting them sample the salt before trickling away in refracted puddles
We are either predator or prey
Either ignited with confidence in a buoyant reality
Or we shrivel and wither beneath ourselves
Until we're ghastly resemblance of who we once were
That skin
The one fractured and gray with the stones
The one that people crush and conquer along
The one that is frowned to be shown in the radiance of a sunlit dawn or dusk
Was told it could be fixed with remedies and wrapping paper
But what most people don't know
As they cement every cavity and corrupted line
Is that the inside of the skin is still broken pieces
Pieces that no looking eye would ever get to see
~ Kes
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YOU ARE READING
Forgotten Words
PoesiaThis is a collection of my poems. It is filled with my emotions and profound thoughts of what I experience in the world around me. These are my nonsense verses.
