A Letter To My Skin: Stomach

For years I hid from you. I stepped away from the mirror when you were out, I refused to look down at you when I was naked and I stopped touching any part of you.

I tortured you for nearly a decade and then all of a sudden, you were hurting all on your own. You brought a new type of pain, one I hadn’t had the misfortune to encounter before.

Consumed by self-loathing I didn’t even see the first lesion until there were three more with it. I missed the beginning and now I can’t stop watching the endless trail of scars you bring me.

Shame kept my head bowed, hidden from the world and from the stories my skin could tell. I thought if I hid for long enough then it would start afresh and I’d get to gaze down at silky and unblemished skin for the first time since I was a little kid. I dreamed of the day you would magically regenerate into something pretty and scar free. The day never came.

So, I plotted and planned for skin grafts and miracle cures that would take away the scars, and the pain that came with them. I waited for a magical makeover, where all my hang-ups would vanish and I would kick-start my life as a happy, shiny person with no scars.

I dreamed and I hoped but nothing happened. You continued to collect new scars, turning against yourself as you tore new pathways up my sides and across my back. No skin cell was left untouched.

Your surface only grew angrier and, because you were the only part visible to me, I focused all my self-loathing on you. You dug deep roots and ten years later they haven’t budged. They have only stretched deeper and latched onto new layers of skin.

You’ve become a playground of scars I can barely keep track of. Who knows what came from which flare up now, only you do. But you don’t tell me anything anymore. All I can do is wait and see what pops up next.

It’s taken years but I can look at you now. I refuse to hide from my own skin anymore. I’ve learned to welcome you into my home. I take care of you and try and track your progress as you dig new pathways through my flesh.

I run my hand over you and a hundred stories call to be heard. You’re a constellation made up of unknowable stars and black holes that I’ve thrown too many secrets into. You may be a disaster, but you’re my beautiful disaster.