Stories on skin.

Flaky skin, darkened patches 

Translucent veins. Tattoos that hide pain within them and under them.
Ghosts of sorrows past and present.
Gift wrapped in soft flesh and softer souls.
Stories that are seldom told but when done right, become scars.
And how we like to pick them up in others, hiding our own.
Trading wound for wound and never counting the other person's battles.

My first was a crescent shaped burn mark. Not intentional.
A play thing. A mark of siblinghood and protection. Another a fall from grace splitting my knee open where my brother got to play doctor and then went on to become one. Another a slash from a broken wash basin when I overreached my attempt to be clean. That's my list.
But once I started noticing, I saw that they bloom everywhere.

In crooks of necks and curving elbows, in corners of eyebrows and squashed noses and chiseled cheekbones.
Things that were broken upon human skin leaving scars deeper. I can still feel the glass metal and wood that entered people and stayed hidden in the folds of trauma well beneath skin.
And then there are voices and images and words flashing back.
A horror film that became a silent movie.
Nothing to explain. Nothing to record.
Blood running cold, smiles fading.