Armour
I shed my skin, callous as it is, hardened by time, and by solitude. I wore it like a badge for so long, thinking it was an exoskeleton that help my soupy insides – that without it, I would be no more than a puddle on the ground.
To truly give my full, whole self to others, to be at the mercy of the world and vice versa I need no armour; to let the light, dark and every infinity of the spectrum of me flood where I am. Not liquid, not solid, our inside is gas. With no barriers it fills the space that surrounds it, mixes and reacts to create products that are greater than the sum of its parts. I’m not afraid of the arrows I thought to be flying, they pass right through, if they are even there at all. Dipped with poison that emulsifies, they hit and slow only those who wear their armour – firing arrows unwittingly as they do unto others as it is perceived to be done unto them.
I cast no stone, I am not without sin or fault. I am sin, I am fault, I am so much more; no arrows shall touch me as I float through – around those who hold up their shields up high, crouched against the buffeting arrows created by those they hit. Every judgement, every entitled word borne of discounted luck hardens my skin to armour that plugs the gas of our love. Day by day I shed my skin, not worried if it grows, for there is always tomorrow – another day to count my luck, to help others, to be kind and thankful.
