You pick at your skin,
like it's something that can be undone.
Like my hands were only dust
that settled too long in one place.
Fingertips searching for erasure,
for a clean version of yourself
that never knew me-
never leaned into the warmth,
never stayed.
But memory isn't so shallow.
It doesn't live only on the surface,
doesn't flake away
with every restless motion.
It lingers-
in the quiet spaces between breaths,
in the way you hesitate
before touching your own reflection.
You can try to peel me away,
layer by careful layer,
but i was never just your skin.
May 26
May 26, 2026 at 5:32 AM UTC
You pick at your skin,
like it's something that can be undone.
Like my hands were only dust
that settled too long in one place.
Fingertips searching for erasure,
for a clean version of yourself
that never knew me-
never leaned into the warmth,
never stayed.
But memory isn't so shallow.
It doesn't live only on the surface,
doesn't flake away
with every restless motion.
It lingers-
in the quiet spaces between breaths,
in the way you hesitate
before touching your own reflection.
You can try to peel me away,
layer by careful layer,
but i was never just your skin.
