psoriasis

My skin tells stories
in patches and flares,
a map of battles fought
beneath the surface.
But I’m not afraid
of the sun,
its fierce light
a balm, a cleansing fire
that heals what it can
and leaves the rest to me.

I walk in the open,
no shadow to hide in,
no shame to drape
over my shoulders.
Criticism cuts,
but I’m sharper still —
each word a grain of salt
that stings,
but cannot wound.
I’ve grown thick
where it matters,
soft where it counts.

Truth comes like the sun,
brilliant and searing,
but I do not flinch.
I’ve faced its heat,
held its gaze,
and let it burn away
what isn’t mine to keep.

So let them speak,
let them stare —
I wear my scars
like a second skin,
unashamed,
unafraid,
unbroken.
This is who I am —
marked by life,
but not defined
by the marks it leaves.