Under My Skin

My nose turns red when it’s cold.

I try to hide the blush of crimson

flushing my surface.

Every time I am chilled…

Every time I am embarrassed…

Every time I work in the sun…

I endure the pokes and the questions,

‘Does that hurt?’

‘You must be sunburned.’

‘Are you running a fever?’

It doesn’t hurt

There’s nothing wrong.

It just is.

I can try to outrun my history.

I can try to cover it in moisturizer and concealer.

I can try to imagine and make peace with

the Siberian winters that my ancestors confronted

causing my skin to raise warning at the slightest infraction.

When my skin responds as though even the mildest elements batter me

I am not plagued with thoughts of surviving as they were.

I don’t know the things that came before.

I don’t know the people whose blood still lingers in mine.

But my body does;

my skin does.

It reminds me.