From the formation in my mother's womb to the
Present day in my living room,
My skin would have a lot to say.
It would reminisce on the early days of baby wash, lotion and coos,
Feeling the softness of the blanket and my mom holding me tight.
Her kisses on my cheek, her singing in my ear,
I would drift off to sleep with no harm and no fear.
Soon those days were over and my skin felt something else.
It was hard and abrasive, I cried each time it was dealt.
I didn't know what caused it, I didn't know how to stop it,
So I figured out how to tighten my muscles so the pain
Would wrap itself around it.
My skin talked to me by changing colors where I was hit.
Black, blue, green and yellow all those colors were it.
I hid them very well for I was taught to be a good girl,
Besides, who really cared? I was on my own in this world.
For decades I self injured by pulling my hair out,
I punished myself for my shame.
I cut myself on my arms and torso because
I had no one else to blame.
The biting in my mouth no one else needed to know,
It was a secret I'd kept until many months ago.
My skin was broken by sexual abuse, my little body victimized.
I tell myself it isn't my fault but I still feel mummified.
Someone stole my innocence, I see his face very clear,
I know his name instinctively, I've known it for many years.
If my skin could talk, it would have a lot to say.
From a mother's love to a father's abuse the memories don't fade away.
I hope as God heals me and as I read His word,
My skin will find a place to call home and it's story will be heard.
