This Skin

A Poem by mcnickname

I will live in this skin until I die.
I will die in this skin.

When remembered,
I will be this skin.

When cut,
I will bleed from this skin.

When kissed, when punched, when I shyly hand a stranger some random dropped belonging,
they will brush against this skin.

When a drunken driver, reminiscing about some adolescence scent,
forgets how fast the road is moving,
this skin will flow around his headlight.

When my ancient wife comforts my dieing face,
with the loose embrace of her ageing neck,
one last twitch of sweet embarrassment will sweep over this skin.

When the weight of the earth that buries my coffin
becomes too much for the rotting wood to hold,
it will crash down on this skin.

When I wash,
I will wash this skin.

When I come to terms with myself,
when I can loose myself,
when I can slip into old panics,
as confident as each rain falls,
I can scar, and burn, and be memorable, and die,
as i am beneath my skin.