the skin within.

our skins collect memories like shelves collect dust
each layer, a story; each layer, more rust.

new chapters are plastered by the laminate masters
they deftly craft you, a breathing chef-d'oeuvre.
marbled with moments of love and of beauty,
painted with pictures of doubt and suspense.
speckled with scriptures and spider-webbed lies,
whiskered with seconds of hellos and goodbyes.
our lives are all written, too often we find,
with verses and stanzas of the most sesquipedalian kind.
the layers continue, each concealing the last;
though we cannot erase the present or past.
but if we could wipe it all clean, no more dirt or debris;
then what could be seen, and who would we be?

peace.
-lise.