#skins
White as a mask, porcelain-light lies.
Black as a bruise, raw truth sighs.
I too carry two mirrored hues.
Some nights I stitch the darker muse.
Not for its ache nor bitter scars,
but how it hums like burning stars.
There, I hunger, unashamed, unbound.
There, I feast where fire is found.
Jan 19
Jan 19, 2026 at 10:45 PM UTC
I got a piece of my soul
Stuck on your ruffled sleeves
Can I pry them off
I'll try not to let our skins touch
Cause I too am trying to forget
The warmth that I've felt
Aug 11, 2025
Aug 11, 2025 at 11:41 AM UTC
By the odds of life; tell me what are the odds
you’ll know the rhythm of a bee’s heartbeat –
And as you skip a stone across the water's surface,
would the river’s heart skip a beat?
_know that all of creation are alive too…_
I am alive too, as my skin feels beat; self-discipline
is no easy feat – for the flesh is weak, but has the
strength to torment your mind the entire week.
But we are more than skins; capable of beating
the odds, of giving to our skins.
Feb 12, 2025
Feb 12, 2025 at 2:24 PM UTC
Oh, please tell me why I still care for the side of you that always
lets me down – my mind becomes your fence, picking at all of my
thoughts – each one a slat in a picket fence to surround your own
insecurities.
Tell me what lights are coming on, to keeping on pretending that
love still turns you on; have you truly spent the nights restlessly
trying to fall asleep in a **** pose, draped in nothing but a pyjama
thong?
You shed your clothes more readily than your skins, that could
unveil the core of your true self – “this time, I am changing,” you
proclaim, yet what truly changes if you harbour such shame for
the loose parts of yourself, tell me what’s the point of looking for
change, if you don't want to fully change?
Dec 21, 2024
Dec 21, 2024 at 7:45 AM UTC
i have forced myself
to fit into different skins
so many times ;
like how water takes the
shape of its containers.
how many persons
do i have to become
before i could truly
become myself?
Sep 6, 2020
Sep 6, 2020 at 8:16 AM UTC
skinny girls jump for beauty
the sad truth that hooks with reality
i used to think eating less would
be better than being blessed
why not think highly of models and magazines
that says you're not pretty otherwise?
perhaps i may not be the brightest with
my age, but fret not.
the distress you form when you eat,
the anxiousness you feel when you
drown in a sea of thoughts that serves you
nothing but ferociousness
that makes you look upon more models
and magazines that says you're not pretty otherwise.
it's tainting.
skins in different colors,
beauty will always be found within.
Jun 25, 2019
Jun 25, 2019 at 8:55 AM UTC
skins aren’t skins
in this world.
they’re
death threats
inked permanently
on your bones
covering your body
with scratches and stereotypes,
bringing bruises and bullets to your head
and the only way to stay safe
is if the ink is white.
skins are signs
to know which ones
will pay the price
if you close your eyes
you will see the color
to marginalize
warped in a wrapped world
do we even see beyond
what pigment we have
or are we
wrapped around a warped world
where pain is really
skin deep.
isn’t it strange?
we live in a world where
the color of your skin
indicates how people
see you and
the darker it is,
the more invisible
you become.
i wish
we were all
color blind.
Nov 12, 2016
Nov 12, 2016 at 8:19 AM UTC
By Arcassin Burnham
Let me take my paint brush to a place
worth while and recollect all of the memoirs,
A body full a decadent bliss is something I look
forward to like butterflies in jars,
...Like why you gotta do that to me?,
......I don't bruise easily,
take me away with your skin in heaven where
they wash and feed the turkey not feed on it
having second thoughts about their recent lives
in favor of the Lord saving them from utter peril
and stages and phases and escapes of sin,
I'd be more than gladly to just look within,
pouring passion,
into the art work,
attention is all that you're worth,
........But why you gotta do that to me?
Jul 7, 2016
Jul 7, 2016 at 12:26 PM UTC
I want you to see galaxies
And breathe the universe when you look at me.
Instead I'm howling at the moon
And feeling like a dim star
on the verge of collapse.
May 29, 2016
May 29, 2016 at 7:11 PM UTC
She ran as fast as her brittle legs would allow
without catching her breath once as she ran miles somehow.
And she reached her favourite bench overlooking the countryside
surrounded by swaying trees and an air of grace as she sat and cried.
There's creatures in her mind that won't allow her to think clearly;
the belief she should go beyond the veil plays on her mind severely.
So she swallows a bag of pills washed down with strong tequila,
and stands upon the bench with her earphones in, dancing like a ballerina.
Feb 21, 2016
Feb 21, 2016 at 6:03 AM UTC
go to the doctor
keep weights in your pocket
don't forget to eat
change topic
"i'm not hungry"
eat
"i ate earlier"
don't forget to eat
Sep 3, 2015
Sep 3, 2015 at 9:19 PM UTC
lovely, lovely, lovely.
wow.
didn't eat for three days so i could be
lovely
and
dizzy
cold
tired
sick.
baby, dont listen to black and white
screencaps
of Cassie
from skins uk,
she looks like something
i once wanted to be.
she also looks
sick.
May 12, 2015
May 12, 2015 at 12:35 PM UTC
these days, girls
strive to become
effy stonem- a
fictional character on
a show where
everyone drinks and
has *** and
does drugs.
in the end
of the program
she looses her
mind, but yet
every girl wants
to grow up
to be her.
enticing? i think
not.
Oct 6, 2014
Oct 6, 2014 at 11:13 PM UTC
I've read all my readings and
I'm watching an episode of
Skins and I'm trying to settle
the copious amounts of vino
I've consumed over the last
5 hours while I lie in bed waiting for
you to reply with an answer of
whether I should leave my bed to
meet you so that I can be in your
bed or if I should just keep lying
here watching this episode of
Skins and consume a little bit more
vino before I fall nervously into a
lonely slumber
Sep 21, 2014
Sep 21, 2014 at 11:30 PM UTC
this is the first time I've been able to write about you in a year, and hurts more with every character that I type.
you used to bring me joy and happiness, and now you bring me feelings of sorrow, pain, anxiety and depression. i'm still trying to figure out how that is possible, especially coming from you.
when we were still together, I used to lie awake at 4AM thinking about how much I love you, and how much it would hurt to lose you. i used to dream of owning a beautiful home on the lake with you, and every morning, I could roll over either way and see a beautiful sight.
on my left; a glistening lake
on my right; the love of my life
now, I lie awake at 2AM wondering what went wrong and how much I miss you. quite a transition, isn't it?
Aug 3, 2014
Aug 3, 2014 at 11:58 PM UTC
How can we get so attached to someone who isn't
Even real? Why do we cry when something tragic
Happens to our favorite characters? I find myself
Not being able to get over Freddie McClair's death even though
I constantly remind myself that it was only fiction. Even
Now I am saddened by the memory. Freddie was only
A character.. Why must I feel so upset?
Jul 9, 2014
Jul 9, 2014 at 9:12 AM UTC
As she took off her shirt on a one way camera.
She knew he only wanted to see her nakedness.
"because you look good in clothes but you
look much much much better naked"
All this love he proclaimed, where
only sweet nothing to tear her clothes off.
Her bra came off, then her shirt.
She laid there staring into text.
Not his face, not his voice, just words.
Thinking to her self, he's using me,
but I'm allowing it.
because all we will ever be is cam buddies,
where she was the center of attention.
AS if her nakedness could make him fall for
her quirky, clumsy hopeless romantic self.
All her bare chest could ever do is let him blow off some steam.
because "it's really **** when I can see them bounce."
On and Off that's what he liked about her,
he could let her go and know she'd pick up the pieces
until he came back to make her faulter again.
She was his slave, because no one ever made her
feel more like **** and a princess
all at once, than he did.
He was the monster in her heart with the resemblance of Gods.
May 11, 2014
May 11, 2014 at 2:39 PM UTC
The likes of you I can't describe,
Yet I love to eat between your thighs.
The melody you spake to me
Unfolds my greatest sovereignty.
I crave to quaff all of your spit,
And swallow every drop of it.
Don't cheat me of your tasty flesh,
Those bare and supple ****** *******
Your eyes that follow my firm gaze,
While we kiss and lick and misbehave.
I need to feel each piece of skin,
Smashing girl and boy parts over and over again.
It's such a treat to eat you whole;
I'm obsessed with eating 19-year-olds.
May 8, 2014
May 8, 2014 at 9:32 PM UTC
all i want is to live in the skins universe
where everything is in a hazy summer filter
with every glance charged with meaning and energy
and getting ****** on drugs is a legitimate pastime
and everyone's wardrobe is so individualistic
who would give a **** about society?
we're too busy having *** and getting trashed and laughing
we're too busy living the life we wished we could live
May 5, 2014
May 5, 2014 at 9:30 PM UTC
She had stopped crying.
All evening in her black-mesh coup de voodoo.
On the plane she had been crying
For her Summer pal. Yesterday she had been to market
Big brown bags and white bags, little pink bags filled with crimsony scents,
Capricornia, looseleaf newsprint, postcards, and colored pencils,
She had hands full of handles, bags bundled, stitched in strict Saturday fashion.
He could barely break a step, he could fake dance with her feet on his tip toes.
She was only three quarters the perfect size to fit inside his frame.
The grand disappearing act. And she was only ifs and suicides.
A stranded ray of sun-draped hair on a cooly porcelain forehead, the segments were all just wrong,
Something so wrong, trembling heart cries over a mute coo through a flattened tongue.
The sickle tongue, dodgy on Tuesday's, She had a simple mug, oh! But so cute and soothing, the nape
That wrapped around, my arm lapped its hands in a clapping ginormous duck's bill!
Lapping rhythmically. Thwack! Thwack!
Like no crying I had ever heard. Nor Earthen beauty I had never seen.
Her little lamb legs lumbered over, her awkward thinness and long limbs spilt on top of her,
Her tiny shoulders searching for support from her hips. White aurulent doll head on a stick,
She had sad defeated eyes, whimpering, pathetic,
Too small, and she shuttered and she shook,
And she shivered out every teardrop her body ever made. And she fell back on her bottom, and looked
Up as if to see a white steed standing with her guy striking a poised hand down to her,
He split down the middle, stammering, broken pieces of words crumbling out of his mouth
With eager intentions. He was too weak
To give her his feet, or pull her up in, he hadn't the gumption. He was fully occupied standing,
He wept too; then shuffled a little
Towards where she had fallen. He knew she wasn't right
She couldn't get the devil out of her piercing blue pupils, she couldn't
She lied.
Then she just piled on top of her knees and fumbled as if to rise like a demure lamb trying to rise off its Newborn legs, she just curled her legs,
So stiffly built, and narrow footed, built with such inequality to her siblings,
She got in the way of herself, a little lamb that could not manage.
Too whittled for him, he tried, he really tried, but three years had drained his strength, no real help.
When he sat her upright on her bottom, she opened her eyes, and for a moment smiled, grabbed for His hand but then after awhile she was lost, she lost interest, her pupils wandered.
He was orchestrating everything.
A real project, much more urgent and important. By nightfall she could not stand. It was not
That she couldn't smile or laugh or love, she was born
With everything but the will to live -
That cannot be destroyed, just like a love.
Melancholy was more important to her.
Life could not get her attention.
So she died, with her handles still in her hands, green grass stains her legs.
She did not survive another warm summer night.
And then he wept uncontrollably again.
"The wind is oceanic in the elms
And the blossom is all set."
2
The boy has come back
From the seashore, and atop the plateau.
The woes of women are like a genocide
In the morning, when the killing is over,
And the heat begins, and the bodies lie,
And stark life moves for its sobbing bones,
The curved women move with fire.
Father Father Father the girls
Are weeping, and crying and I cannot resist that gentle frailty
They are shucked in their skin suits rising from their soporific slumbers
In decadent leathers and frou frou dresses. They cling to bold faces,
Nothing can escape that cold crying of women weeping for their princes.
Blood-letting rage cannot overthrow the meadow from the pebble brook,
As a laden head bleats its tarnished tongue across a milky breast, it cannot
Escape the sounds of blue-stained teardrops cascading across the plains,
The sounds of woolbirds braying while their skins are sheared against the
Sluicing sound of water rushing through the flume.
All summer they have lamented, gorging on melancholy, tottering their cotton pyramid heads,
Shaking their cries in deliberation, bald skinny victim women screaming out!
Cotton-mouthed clams yaffing, hearts in panic, wholes of bodies clambering in a *** of woe.
They roost useless, pollard and wethered, jealous
Squinting out the last droplets of desperation from their eyes, screaming their mouths in awful
Togetherness, this cacophony of tortured tongue-song
They curdle the last notes of despair out under knotted breaths
With every inch of strength left inside them, they bray this way and that.
Their mothers scream out in wretched despair, ahhh!
On distant cliffs, on scrawny legs
Their stiff pain goes on and on in the September heat.
"Only slowly their hurt dies, cry by cry,"
Whipped bodies toting wergeld on a shore.
The Day She Died
Was the gloomiest day of the new century,
The first of calamitous, unfortunate autumns to come,
The first dying breath from piceous lungs.
That was yesterday. Early morning, soft rime droplets
Frosted to every blade of grass, not like any other
Earlier June day we've ever had. In the deep twilight
The syzygy announced the moon and demoted the sun.
The Earth-crisp frost nuzzled snow droplets.
Black bands of ravens whipping. Martens littering
Fresh kills of red-eyed rabbits on stark white stale
Summer lawns. A fox grayed, its cold bones
Mapped by ravaged feasts. A possum prowling
In a spot of tawny light.
The concrete spread into a maze
Of black veins ripening in the acute niello
Destitution of its widening cracks,
And when the summer left
It left without her. It will have to accept,
In the paley dim light of this vengeful wilderness -
She is gone.
But for now the warmth has not returned but a naked, half-pomegranate
Rotten moon for us two.
And a great vacancy in our memory.
Apr 26, 2014
Apr 26, 2014 at 5:58 AM UTC