When I say I have my dad’s skin, I wonder if They imagine a man who once was brown, walking around, showing off all his innards. … They wouldn’t be wrong.
When they ask what I am, I wonder if They know what I feel. That the color of my skin has made me look unreal. That what I am is defined by the oddity of my body, see. That I am a secret show they’re entitled to free. … They’re somewhat right. I am, after all, the one walking around blind, skinned in brown… as if it was a perfectly normal thing to do.
Much like my dad who always acts, like he doesn’t need skin to keep his insides, in.
Maybe that’s why he gave it to me.
I’m behind on my Writing 201 challenges, but this was Day 3 — “Skin” as a word prompt, “Prose Poetry” as a suggested style, and “Internal Rhyme” as a literary device.
What color do you call your skin? Or do you walk around like my parents, without any on at all?