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
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