If my skin could talk,
it would tell tales about every mark, blemish and scar.
It would fondly remember the day each freckle arrived,
and how the sun had kissed it and
left a permanent reminder of that day.
It would ooze hard work and the
sweat that accompanies such accomplishments.
It would rave about all the wonderful places it has been and all the people it has touched and been touched by.
It would profess its love of texture and materials.
It would call out, begging to be near to another,
Longing for the warmth and love of affection.
If my skin could talk,
It would not worry about being anything but itself.
It would not be concerned with its hue
or that it had a different amount of melanin than another.
It would not hate when it came into contact with something not like itself.
No, instead it would draw the outsider in
surround itself with this foreigner,
learning the marks, blemishes and scars of the new individual, recognizing similarities and embracing contrasting characteristics.

If my my skin could talk, it wouldn’t see; it would feel.