If I bore my mind on my skin,
It would have been an atrocity to look at.

The inscriptions of my whole being, the seasons that made me.
Times that changed me.

If I bore my mind on my skin,
You would question if I was even a christian,
the lust, the anger, the sinful nature within.

You'd think that as christians we would be the best to begin with.
We know and say our God died for us, but on the daily we choose Him over what's embedded He embedded in us; refusing for his nature to grow in us, for him to have his being in us.

If I bore my mind on my skin,
The black ink will turn into a pools of darkness for the tears I shed mentally for fear of looking weak.
The insults I hurled at others trapped within, circling in dark spirals of bitterness, they would have the ink those inscriptions over my chest, as it led me to hate what I could love.

If I bore my mind on my skin,
curse words would take a quarter of it; I find that the further I run away from him, the darker my tongue becomes, you would have to paint my tongue black with ink and continue that pen's tracing to my teeth, engrave them deeply within, the gritty sounds filling your ears.

If I bore my mind on my skin,
The world would deem me unlovable.
As would I, I will not compromise.

If I bore my mind on my skin,
I would be as dark as the night's sky, with white specks of where scripture passed my mind.