When I say I have my dad's skin, I wonder if They imagine a man who once was brown, walking around, showing off all his innards. ... They wouldn't be wrong.
When they ask what I am, I wonder if They know what I feel. That the color of my skin has made me look unreal. That what I am is defined by the oddity of my body, see. That I am a secret show they're entitled to free. ... They're somewhat right. I am, after all, the one walking around blind, skinned in brown... as if it was a perfectly normal thing to do.
Much like my dad who always acts, like he doesn't need skin to keep his insides, in.
Maybe that's why he gave it to me.
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I'm behind on my Writing 201 challenges, but this was Day 3 - "Skin" as a word prompt, "Prose Poetry" as a suggested style, and "Internal Rhyme" as a literary device.
What color do you call your skin? Or do you walk around like my parents, without any on at all?
