Am I at home in this skin?
Looking into sharp mirror splinters full of desire on lonely walls reflecting some of what I want to be, covering the ugly in my soul, facing the cold and hard light of another reality whilst catching a glimpse on something soft and warm running through my fingers as soft sand. Running and running until the only reflection is naked skin without expression, violent curves throwing anger and hurt and jealousy back to what used to be sensual drops on soft skin, triggering everlasting intensity in eternal moments of penetrating sensations peaking into passionate climax.
Cutting my skin on the sharp edges of the reality’s reflection when I’m trying to hunt done what’s warm and soft and gentle. Running my fingernails down my face, down my cheek, to see what’s behind. Scratching skin and pushing my fear to spread like a bushfire over my whole body, burning skull, chest, arms, back, thighs and feet in the desperate urge to uncover what can’t be mine. Craving for the intensity, craving for the emotional, craving for the sweet center point in between lust and pain but just reaching bonds of darkness choking me with brutal words.
Balancing on thin sharp rope called life, cutting my feet in ever closeness to the shore but never reaching the space behind the splinter, behind the crack, behind the glass where the cold light is replaced with warm, gentle illuminations. Numb is my new normal and dirty waters, fierce and strong, full of spears, swords, and knives take me away from what’s light and rip me apart. It’s starting again, the fixing, the healing, using glue made of dark memories and severe substances to put pieces back together that just don’t want to fit just to be ripped apart again.
Chasing after what’s good, fully arming myself to invade the world and burn it down with all my fire, burn it down til the last structure of my mental palace collapses so I can finally find what’s mine. So I can finally find what’s hiding behind the cold curtains of my reality, the pungent layers covering my body into numbness, pain and fear. Embracing what’s familiar and what I deserve, surrendering to the pain without letting go of the last and little spark of hope.
And when I stop hunting the whole world drops and twists and turns, perspective changes, and the warm, soft and gentle disappears, is gone, and the vision disappears as I gaze into my own eyes until I realize I am looking at… me. And the soft, the warm, the gentle is not hidden behind razor blades, not covered by hard shadow spikes, not tied down with sharp ropes in a cage created by everything I want to be.
No, the soft, the warm, the gentle looks back and writes unspoken love letters in the air between us, whispers symphonies about self-love and other wonders in the empty space, resonating deep from the bottom of my heart, caresses my skin with blown kisses of admiration, starting at my skull and slowly going down on me. Appreciates scars, the visible and the invisible, stretch marks, bruises, cellulite, and hairs, every inch of my skin within and without. Blows gently on the deep furrows of ever looping self-distraction. Embraces my darkness to the last shred of velvety obscurity, covering me with my own shadows to turn dark nightmares into black-feathered dreams. The warm, the soft, and the gentle looks at me with blue eyes.
I am at home in this skin.
