Skin Deep

Bones shatter, bruises bloom, skin tears, all these wounds eventually heal in time owing to the body’s orchestral symphony for repair; but what of the lingering memory of trauma?  The shock absorbed by the unsuspecting injury site?

Often the most painful memories flood our senses and implore our decaying exoskeleton; skin bristles, fine hairs arise caught by the faintest of breath and old wounds scream in protest suffering the rebirth of the original offence.

Trauma is cunning in nature and runs more than skin deep, often refusing to be subdued by analgesics.  All too often with physical assault the remnants of abuse linger.  Eyelids flutter, comforted by twilight as gingerly, fingertips search, interpreting so much more in glorious half light than the usual everyday tapestry of life.

Veins flow through us humming news, a living river of memory, aiding its distribution.

We wake in the night for many reasons, often the wrong ones.

By body time travels, my face sinks deep into the pillow beneath it which absorbs silent tears, my body has taken flight, muscles and bones flinching, tensing in response to unseen hands clawing at it, about to commit their first act of violation.

Love yourself, especially the broken parts, the misshapen jigsaw pieces that don’t quite connect anymore, but wistfully reach out nonetheless.

Nurse every inch.