Skin

Standing in my OT, stitching the skin together,

I move the thread between the edges, suturing them closed,

cleaning the blood, ensuring no space remains —

no opening for the outside to come in.

I think about how long the cells take to rest,

how long before new ones rise after the wound is approximated.

Do scars remain even beneath the cuticle?

Can anyone trace the old wounds,

or do they fade with time —

does that day ever come when healing is complete?

I remember my cells once joining in cohesion,

listening to your long conversations, believing.

I remember them vibrating in joy,

nestled in the safe haven that was your presence —

for them, for us.

It was a great performance.

We enjoyed every bit of it —

the colours, the applause,

the low and high tones,

the theatrics of it all.

When the veil was lifted, I took the blow.

The haven was a facade,

the peace only a brief nap under the sun.

It had to end.

I wonder if my cells recover.

Are the old ones still there, clinging to their old beliefs?

Have the new ones arrived yet?

Is the healing complete?

Do I need to know which part of my skin still remembers you —

diseased with illusion?

Do I need to fasten my healing,

separating my skin from me,

sheet by sheet by sheet?