Skin

See how seamlessly it fits,
How it glides over the bones in my knees, and the dark depths in between my toes.
It fits perfectly over the round of my head and down my back,
To the curve of my stomach and delves below, 
To tuck under me. 
A blanket.

Skin.

This membrane, this line,
It says that this is me and that is you. 
Within my skin, I am intact, whole - blood and bones and guts.
Parts of me that function perfectly. 
Outside of this, but beside me is you.
And you, with one exhale, one rush of air, upon which floats a reckless word, a sentence on a knife's edge,
Pushes your skin, your world, your bones, further apart from mine. 
But the air upon which these sounds float, get everywhere, 
After all there is no defence against air. 

Skin.

It's tiny portals that allow you access to my insides,
Pores, through which exchanges are made, from the inside out and the outside in,
These traitors give your air access to my blood,
My barrier, my protector, my skin; turned against me. 
Everything that can make a mess, 
That can be churned to a froth, is.
A perverse chemistry with no observable outward reaction. 
It is my skin now that protects you. 
It keeps me contained, keeps me from spilling out.
For I know, how one word uttered upon an exhale can create a storm.