My eczema is climing me like creepers climbing a wall
It is always reaching further on my surface
Where is it going?
As if it has a mysterious destination that has always been just right out of reach
It looks all pink and explosive
Like still fireworks
Frozen on the surface of my skin
Frozen
Like oil paint tossed into my skin
And paused there then
For now we have to live together
Me and this vibrant, electric plant
"What is the significance of your appearance?
I ask of it
It stays silent,
And still.
Breathing,
Through its quiet, pulsating itching
I have to refrain from touching it
Its poisonous, tiny, sensitive sakura petals
Resisting the lure of its enticing breaths.
It fully presents its existence
Fully open
Exposed
Wide-spread
As if tranquilly embodying its quiet innocence
Peacefully claiming its righteous presence
I watch
In a distance
In wary admiration
Watering it twice a day, carefully
And applying translucent, pure white vaseline
As if taking care of its delicate beauty
It lets me be
Lets me do whatever I want with it
It pays no mind
It shrinks when that's the direction of the wind
And it absorbs the aliveness for growth happily
From when I sometimes give up resistance
And indulge in its inviting fragrance
Then caught by regret afterwards,
When watching its pleasantly enlivened pink existence, charged, ready
And let out a sigh in deep remorse.
Its art embedded, blooming, serenely, above the intricate highways of my running blood vessels
Sometimes I hold resentments against it,
Its pink, alarming, worrisome colors
Its ever-present attempt to lure, ****** my touching.
Sometimes I let it be
Admiring its art
Like how it lets me be
It /is/ like an art
Non-verbal messages are carried within its sudden appearance in my gallery, my body
To be understood, felt, through experiencing, through me
It's a language spoken to me through my skin
It's a gast of wind flared with fire flames blowing through my porous physicality
Leaving fiery marks on my surface
And when my being finishes registering its messages
It will leave me
It will leave the way it arrived
Suddenly
Entirely
Quietly
Leaving my skin peaceful again
Like water restored from ripples of a suddenly dropped stone chip
Back to being a windless mirror
Then will I miss it?
I won't.
Maybe I will,
In my change,
In my poetry
Jan 23
Jan 23, 2026 at 8:18 AM UTC
My eczema is climing me like creepers climbing a wall
It is always reaching further on my surface
Where is it going?
As if it has a mysterious destination that has always been just right out of reach
It looks all pink and explosive
Like still fireworks
Frozen on the surface of my skin
Frozen
Like oil paint tossed into my skin
And paused there then
For now we have to live together
Me and this vibrant, electric plant
"What is the significance of your appearance?
I ask of it
It stays silent,
And still.
Breathing,
Through its quiet, pulsating itching
I have to refrain from touching it
Its poisonous, tiny, sensitive sakura petals
Resisting the lure of its enticing breaths.
It fully presents its existence
Fully open
Exposed
Wide-spread
As if tranquilly embodying its quiet innocence
Peacefully claiming its righteous presence
I watch
In a distance
In wary admiration
Watering it twice a day, carefully
And applying translucent, pure white vaseline
As if taking care of its delicate beauty
It lets me be
Lets me do whatever I want with it
It pays no mind
It shrinks when that's the direction of the wind
And it absorbs the aliveness for growth happily
From when I sometimes give up resistance
And indulge in its inviting fragrance
Then caught by regret afterwards,
When watching its pleasantly enlivened pink existence, charged, ready
And let out a sigh in deep remorse.
Its art embedded, blooming, serenely, above the intricate highways of my running blood vessels
Sometimes I hold resentments against it,
Its pink, alarming, worrisome colors
Its ever-present attempt to lure, ****** my touching.
Sometimes I let it be
Admiring its art
Like how it lets me be
It /is/ like an art
Non-verbal messages are carried within its sudden appearance in my gallery, my body
To be understood, felt, through experiencing, through me
It's a language spoken to me through my skin
It's a gast of wind flared with fire flames blowing through my porous physicality
Leaving fiery marks on my surface
And when my being finishes registering its messages
It will leave me
It will leave the way it arrived
Suddenly
Entirely
Quietly
Leaving my skin peaceful again
Like water restored from ripples of a suddenly dropped stone chip
Back to being a windless mirror
Then will I miss it?
I won't.
Maybe I will,
In my change,
In my poetry