When you can be yourself,
When you can take out,
Your own skin,
And wear it.
And it’s a perfect fit.

In my own skin.
It’s strange yet familiar,
Like a childhood bed.
Long discarded,
Long forgotten,
Yet still remembered.

Beauty spots and scars,
In equal measure.
Stubborn blemishes.
Cannot be scrubbed out,
Or erased.
They are permanent marks,
Of distinction.

Telling tales,
Of battles fought,
And burdens borne.
Of narrow escapes,
And regretted mistakes.
Mapping my existence,
Past meeting future.

This skin that tingles.
That burns. That peels.
That hurts. That screams.
That cries in the sun.
That shivers in the rain.
This skin is mine.

In my own skin.
Destiny meeting
The will.
Bearing dreams.
An existence,
So beautiful.
Even sorrow is a scar,
Graciously worn.