Skinned Alive

We all get so used to touching skin, that a lot of times we forget how to feel it. We forget what the texture is. We lose the memory of praising every hair, every mole and freckle. Skin is so soft: like supple, smooth, plump, creamy, clean. Rough: like dry, cracked, chapped, chafed, itchy, dirty. Warm: like heat, abundance, heavy, tender, thick. Cold: like chilly, like blue, like elbows and toes in the winter time. We forget to lovingly run our fingers over every scar, every bruise, every jut, and crevice, and stretch mark, and dimple. We forget that our hair needs love, not just on our heads, but between our brows, on our chins, and under our armpits, on our shins, our pubic areas, our big toes. We have forgotten the feeling of the weight that we carry beneath our skin. Every muscle, tendon, pound of fat. We have forgotten that having our skin is to have oxygen, sweat, body odor, confidence, insecurity, stability. Our skins are warriors. They fight and bleed, they wrinkle and twist. Every cell of our skin is replaceable, replaced every seven days. We have forgotten that our skin means renewal, means rebirth, means rejoice. We have forgotten that our skin is the only home we will ever truly own. They say that our bodies are our temples, our churches, our synagogues. We have forgotten most of all that our skin is the stained glass windows.