looking at this streetlight outside my window has me thinking about how I got here.
i feel like when i was young i had bright pink sensitive skin.
i went through the years connecting ideas and built myself im sure.
but when i run my hands through those times i dont feel too many curves.
curves where i felt free. i felt safe. i felt secure.
when i run my hands they pick up spikes.
The spikes grown by my tactless interactions and countless faux pas.
when i was in the seventh grade a teacher made me do a slideshow about the number twelve. I addressed the audiences as fellow "twelve-lovers".
My teacher said that was "weird" and made me change it.
I went outside to my back porch to tell my dad i wanted a DiGiorno pizza. their tagline was called "love at 425 degrees" and thats what me and my dad called it.
friend said it was "weird" and i never called it that again.
My sister painted my nails blue. My mom said boys only get clear nail polish. I havent painted my nails since.
Each of these moments were punctuated with a laugh.
What do you do when you feel all of your inside drop completely; what do you do when you begin to feel sick as someone looks into your eyes and laughs?
they dug into the skin.
They scored blood and when it dried it left keloids allll over me.
theres nothing to change this. there is no going back.
so now i have taken my skin in my hands. And cared for it. I know its there. the bright pink skin is underneath.
the scales protect.
sometimes i steal a look around myself. and i seeo thers take others' pink skin into their hands.
are people afraid of me?
if so, what scares them?
the keloids?
or the scales?
my cat for reference