My skin is not smooth, it is a landscape, creased and rough
My skin is not smooth—it is a landscape, creased and rough, folded like a well-traveled map.
The curve of my neck cradles the sun, even when the sky is gray and distant.
The scar on my knee is where I learned gravity,
There I remember how my knees sought answers and bruised against silence,
The faded marks on my wrists are memories I stopped trying to erase.
My shoulder holds the weight of unsent letters, of unkept promises,
Of people whose ghosts I’ve kept long after they disappeared.
Behind my ribs, ferns unfurl, and roots intertwine with the hum of my heart.
Saltwater collects in my throat, swallowed like a secret I refuse to speak,
It floats between the tightness in my chest, weighing heavy with the unspoken,
With everything I couldn’t say and the silence that remains.
The curve of my hip sways to a melody only silence can sing,
The arch of my foot, like a compass, knows the escape routes without needing directions.
I am stitched together from paths I never chose, oceans I had to cross,
Mountains I was lifted to, and somewhere along the way, I learned to call them home.
Maps aren’t always drawn with ink; some are stitched with breath and scars.
Don’t ask me where I come from—ask me where I’ve been.
Touch my shoulder, and I’ll show you a road only my skin knows.
Copyright ©
Dan Enache
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