My Skin

When I first heard the phrase

“beauty is only skin deep,”

I figured the standard must be pretty low.

my mother, face full of enigma shaped indentations, taught

me how to mend worlds between unconventional and beautiful.

I learned the phrase means physical appearance is only a cover.

our stories live beneath the dermis.

despite this affirmation, I still couldn’t stand in my truth

felt no more comfort than the cysts and pimples

starting riots on my face.

each one, a raised fist ripping the surface

inflamed and growing like tension

bullet big, shoot first when the smile triggers the cheek

showing their bloody heads in public.

showing out; always seem to pop off when I bat

lashes at cuties like flashing lights.

I am no warning sign.

I do not want to wear his battlefield no more.

I do not want to look in the mirror and see

see targets.

scarred

puss-filled

acne making casualties of me

hands tire each time the new facial scrub fails its mission

hope fades when a stranger’s unsolicited advice bombs

my self-esteem into oblivion.

I have never been good with rejection.

my mother’s resilience is driving me towards restoration

so I am learning how to trust a tragedy.

how to dance fear away

speak life into my skin when it betrays me

molding my tongue into a bridge of mercy

forgiving all the jabs I have thrown at it

only holding rhymes these bumps can

bounce to.

teaching myself to love them back.

all things trying to hurt me

are lessons worth fighting for

this skin, all dark and delightful, is testament

of survival.

I am loving my skin into redemption

a new kind of bombshell beauty

a kinder war song

elegant in all of its

“ugly.”