My skin says, "I hurt."

It says, "let me heal."

My skin says I am perfect, imperfect, and unique, all at once.

I am who I am, and my skin pleads, "don't change."

It says, "thank you," to the raindrops caressing my cheeks,

and to the needy little grass blades grabbing onto my shoes with every step.

My skin says hello.

Hello to the universe and all the shooting stars.

Hello to the people who used to make my skin feel bad,

and my skin hopes your skin never feels the way you made mine feel.

My skin warms up under the sunshine, and blisters under the beaming light.

It says to me, "I'm damaged."

My skin showcases my scars, and begs to be covered up.

It wants to be touched, to be appreciated... yet, to hide.

It remembers seven years ago, when I first took a razor to it.

It  remembers all the scraped knees I've had in my youth.

My skin basks in the taste of cold sweat after bad dreams,

waking up thinking I'll always feel alone.

It looks at other skin, and it doesn't want to be my skin, anymore.

It sees the societal standards and struggles to be perfect... blemish free.

But, if it was perfect, it wouldn't be MY skin.

I lay in bed, and I think I hate my skin,

but yet it tells me, "You're beautiful."