My mother had thin skin.
Thin skin. Thin skin.
I think of her bandages and her bruises and the blue of her veins.
The pale of candles and the gray of fog begs forgiveness.
Smoke. Mist. There. Not there. Be careful.
Thin skin. Thin skin.
Love tears hurt wounds. I'm bleeding. Where'd that come from?
She had thin skin and was often bleeding.
I wanted her skin to be thicker. I wanted her to heal more quickly.
I wanted her not to be wounded by a quick glance or a sharp tongue.
But she was. She was she was. Forever wounded and forever woundable.
I wanted her to have armor. Instead, she had thin skin. Thin like an eardrum that hears everthing with percussive force.
Thin like eyelids that can't hold back the intensity of life. What others welcome, thin skin cannot withstand: sun, light, life's simple brushes bumps and bruises.
She had thin skin and I'm sorry.
