Clear Skin

Dylan Rosenow

Born with soft skin of a babe; my hands are now calloused in an attempt to get a grip on life. These hands not made for fighting, my knuckles are bruised squaring off with my fears.

I have eyes made to see nature in color, yet I was born colorblind. Socks and shoes to comfort my steps, but I’m barefoot, I feel the weight, the heaviness.

A tongue meant to taste the cuisines of life, buds now dead, they refuse to bloom. Broad shoulders to carry the weight of the world, but not broad enough, I slip through the cracks.

Ears meant to hear the birds sing, but instead I hear Iraqi babies crying. A nose to smell perfumes of Paris, instead I smell black licorice poured in my drink.

I am imperfect, a reminder I am me. Because of these faults, I’ve grown content, being a man who can breathe.