Numb

Picking at my scabs, the scars that I've covered in bandages.  The scars I'm afraid to show, thinking people will turn in disgust.

I've picking at them until they burn.  Remembering the time it was a smooth skin.  Remembering before it was damaged.

I'm torn whether I wear my sleeves down to cover up the sight, to fit in with those that have soft skin.  Yet the sleeves keep my uncomfortably warm in the sun.  All I want to feel is a breeze on my worn self.  A touch of comfort on my damaged skin.

I feel my soul is all that is keeping it together.

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