P.

I have a skin disease
A disorder
My body attacks itself

My skin make new
skin very frequently
It flakes
It itches

Dry
Red
Flakey
Ew

"Oh, what happened?!"
Strangers cry
"Did you burn yourself?"
The look of disgust

The aesticians ask
If it hurts
Then speak to one another
In a language I don't understand

I know it's about me

"Does it hurt?"
Yes
But I'm used to it
Yes

"No, it's not contagious"
You can't catch it
I don't understand
Why I have it

I
Wish
I
Could

In a way it's a
Metaphor
For my
Soul

I look thick-skinned
and funny
But it flakes off
Easily

Onto people I don't intend
Because they're not safe with my
Heart

And I bleed and ache
Twitch
and
Itch

Under the surface

Cover it
Soothe it topically

Been doing that for years
It's time for a change

The healing
needs to
come from
the inside

But maybe the
pain
will never be
gone

Maybe it's my cross to bear
To remind me of Him

Having this doesn't
make me better
holier
stronger

It makes me
weak
embarassed
dependent

Maybe that's okay