Skin―Jood M.T.

Shaken like
a rug full
of dust,
I was moved
by the murmur
of your
honey-filled words.
They were
sweet enough
to attract
the bees, and
yet they
crush my
bones, so I
had to
make mosaics
out of them.
They crushed
my teeth
and scarred
my skin
so that
I cannot
do anything
but collect
all that
damage and
wear it
like a diamond
necklace.
They intoxicate
me—fill me
with a
venomous air
that my blood
freezes, even
as it is
hot like our
August summers—
even as I
am warm-blooded.
My skin,
a tapestry
of my ancestors,
is traced with
scars of
honey-filled,
poisonous,
and sugar-glazed
wounds of
you.
Words fill
your mouth
as if they
were pomegranate
molasses,
and I should
savor their
sweetness, but I
find them sour,
instead.
They
send bullets
to my skin,
and I have
no more
air left—
no more
room left
to scream.
Instead, I
wear my
scars like
a diamond
necklace in
the middle
of a funeral,
and yet you
rip it off my
neck and
crush it
beneath the
soles of
your leather
shoes.
My skin
is still a battle—
still a work
of art, that
I have made
mosaics out
of my bones,
and a
tapestry out
of my
skin.
It is armored
with
honeyfilledwordsproof
steel, that
no one’s
hands could
bear to
touch, unless
they were made
of smoldering
fires.
Unless they
would turn
the rocks
of my damaged
skin into
a diamond
necklace.