Skin

It was hot and itchy underneath my skin.

It never seemed to fit quite right.

Sometimes I couldn’t move

or

breathe

without slipping or straining.

I liked the way you looked in your skin,

so I searched for a home in you.

I became soft and small,

twisted my roots to fit in a space

you wouldn’t mind.

I liked the heat of your body wrapped around mine.

I liked getting lost in your scent.

It reminded me of pine trees and solid earth and the sun.

I liked getting lost while wandering in you,

filling every small space

with me.

I liked the way our bodies slipped together,

wet and warm,

our breaths misting

until I didn’t know where you began

and I ended.

I liked it until I had made myself so small

that I couldn’t move

or

breathe.

But I stayed

until you plucked me out like a thorn from a rose

that had lost all its petals.

So I needed a new skin to settle in,

and I slunk back to my old home.

“This will just be for a bit,” I said.

My skin slid against me in ripples,

for I had become too small.

But I was reminded

of how sweet it smelled,

how silky it felt when I didn’t struggle.

I realized the comfort

of skimming my fingers over paper pages

and curling under covers before sleep.

I noticed how it felt for water to plink and roll

and for the sun to shower kisses that left soft trails

on the bridge of my nose

and over my collarbones.

Just a little bit

turned into

just a little longer

until it turned into

just nothing at all.

I don’t know when I realized I had finally grown

so that my skin hugged the waves of my soul,

and every movement felt as natural as

light tipping out of the sky

or petals unfurling for a new season.

And I could breathe.