Paper Skin

I saw you so fragile today. Not with anger or grief as I’ve seen before, but for the first time, with age.

I reached out and touched your arm then mentally recoiled as I felt your skin, like paper. I was jolted by the recollection of another, a long time ago.

A lady who had loved me and encircled me in arms of soft, paper skin. The same arms that had nursed and comforted you as a babe.

I should have known that you would one day feel the same, but it took my breath away nonetheless.

My daughter’s skin is soft now too, but it is strong. It breaks and bleeds, and grows back pink and fresh. Would your’s? Would it bleed and scab hard? Or would it just keep tearing forever…?

It can’t.

They are going to cut you, slice that precious skin that holds so much life, that once held my life in its tight swell.

I’m not ready to step into your skin. It feels as though I’ve only just stepped out.

And that soft paper of yours has many more lines to write…

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