skin

The bumps along my arm aren’t due to the weather, 

they’re braille pages of panic and disrepair, 

bubbling to the surface. 

For every weightless smile of pride, 

there’s a ten-ton look of disappointment. 

For every good deed, 

there’s punishment. 

These bumps along my arm are scattered braille sentences, 

stolen from the book of blind heredity, 

and I’m ready to retreat. 

For every sun-scratched line, 

there’s burning anxiety, 

trapped in someone else’s pastime. 

My jaw aches from chemicals 

dissolved in the throes of stupidity, 

in the name of chasing escape 

and ignoring my blood rising to the surface. 

Pretend I can’t see the frustration in your eyes,

close my own and read the future on my forearm.