There’s no place
I’d rather be than
In my skin.

It knows me like free verse
written in a forgotten language
heard in song
Lingering over the
Reasons and rhymes
Like Giovanni and poetry

It protects me like a warrior’s oath
spoken in honor’s ceremony
heard in battle
Encasing the amazing wonders
Like soft Adamantine armor

It reveals me spectacularly
felt in Archimedean spirals
heard in Fibonaccian phrases
Presenting the faults and fames
Like a Michelangelo sculpture.

From the toughness
Of my elbows and knees
To the softness
Of my breast and back,
My skin knows of
Lovers,
Of sunshine,
And of midnight kisses.

From the soft pink underside
Of my toes
To the dark mess of tangles
On my head,
My skin’s a multicolored
Canvas for art,
A palette of browns
And rose-tinted golds
And toffee pinks.

Finally,
there’s no place
I’d rather be, than
In my own skin.

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