We are the unfortunate patients,
we can’t have true bed rest.
Baby skin can’t appear at its best
as pain blooms in every itch.
Little bubbles whisper poison under the skin.
We fumble with the bedside switch.
We can’t shine outside.
Histamine, cytokines rebel inside.
Can’t sleep,
the sleepy lamp cries at the bedside.
Barely surviving battle wounds
we never chose.
Still, the world points them out,
making our identity lose.
Cruel scratches, a mess of red.
Falling out of love with the skin
inside our head.
How much can baby skin endure?
This world still has no cure.
Maybe like the tiny root of depression,
it never ends
maybe it only becomes sure.
Untold struggles become compassion.
The beautified world is cruel.
Here, battle marks hide,
a trembling mess,
insecure under long sleeves and dresses.
Beauty, beauty
secrets more than cuisine.
Magic potions for skin,
a new routine.
Here, our battered skin
can’t take those potions,
your aesthetic, magical lotions.
We choose to be normal
just to lose the minimal.
Eczema feels like a curse,
dusted inside a world of magical books and looks.
No cure, just flare-ups
hatred, trapped and insecure.