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Saturday, 27 February 2016

Skin

Skin

This covering, this wrapper I’m within,
This infection barrier,
Protector, keeper of my guts,
Which holds my everything inside,
Stopping me from spilling out upon the floor
And from pouring myself away,
Is under attack,
Both night and day

Infected, itchy, red, rough,
Sore, dry, cracked and broken skin,
A delicate tracery of lines,
A network of flaking layers,
Pieces to be picked and peeled,
Revealing bare tissue below,
Bleeding into crevices,
Creases, valleys and folds
Between fingers and toes,
Dry hair, crumbling nails
Leaving shrinking islands
Of a barely-working epidermis

Oily ointments, greasy creams
And emollient treatments
Penetrate the dermic strata
With cellular, capillary action
Until they quite are absorbed within

Gently rubbing, scratching, stroking,
Smoothing, soothing,
Bathing, seeking brief respite
From this never-ending torment
And the tiny blisters bursting, erupting,
Spreading further poison
Throughout my failing system

Condemned to live within this atopic cell,
Torture-chamber of a thousand tiny cuts,
Prisoner of a painful pathology,
Chronic, never-ending condition
Making forever unthinkable
Any contact with another human body


Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2016

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