It ought not to be easy to change my skin:
I am no shapeshifter.
My skin remembers me,
though I find myself unrecollected in the mirror.
The blister on my toe leaves no mark,
Though this new scab I am picking will.
It will join the scar from the bike trip,
the white traces on my knees.
It knows well its history:
I say I will forget, but my skin has a deeper memory than
mine;
a part of me I cannot shed.
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