Parts of the Whole

My high school French teacher 
told us in class one day that it’s important 
to be “comfortable in our skin”.

My skin is simply a boundary.
It draws a perimeter for the others, 
dividing the delicate from the wilds.
It contains the sensitive ones, guards my vitality,
and houses a precarious family of slight dysfunction.

My lungs live minute to minute,
fueling everything connected by bloodworks
while making one constant repetitive demand.
Demand, receive, demand, receive…
they carry on, monotonous;
satisfied only briefly with each receipt
before demanding again and again,
content with nothing less
than the one thing they truly need. 

My skin gives me an interface for exploring this world,
collecting information to pass to me
while holding no opinions of its own.

My mind lives in milliseconds
day to day to day to day
to week to month to month
to month, all at once, making
evaluation
after calculation
after perception.
So desperate for input,
it will craft it when absent;
so desperate for output,
it will conjure that too. 

My skin lies to the world about my age
in the subtle honesty of fewer smiles
to crinkle the eyes. 

Surviving from one day to the next, 
my heart is a bit different from the others.
Insisting it be remembered, 
it demands acknowledgement.
If I dare forget it for long, 
it will stutter and stagger enough
to jolt me into awareness. 

My skin stands as a blank canvas,
having no motivation to hold ink.
With no stories worth telling,
even scars eventually
fade to nothing.

Some nights I coax them all:
“Just make it to the next sunrise.”
As I seek the reset, I hope tomorrow will find calm;
I dare hope again this will be
the last day any of them ever feel
like this.

Other nights, I gently circle them with hints:
subconscious, barely-there suggestions  
as if to say “Drift away with me tonight.
Synchronize yourself with my most buried desire
to draw this story to a close in the dark.”

Some days they refuse 
to speak much to each other  
aside from their occasional,
quietly insidious demands;  
this softly dysfunctional family.  

The heart will try to persuade the mind
to put an end to its assaults, 
to give the final commands. 

The mind refuses.

After some reflection
the mind will then turn to the heart,
pleading:
“Give up! Give out! 
We’ve had enough!”

The heart refuses in turn. 

Back and forth, back and forth,
they deflect and throw blame with
three fingers pointing back at themselves. All the while, the skin continues to serve in silence
as their battlefield and neutral observer.
Bearing outward expression of internal conflicts,
it serves as an informer, itching and burning,
while seeking no recompense for bearing such vitriol.
Fully aware of the conflict within,
it chooses to remain quiet and still, 
favouring no side and
holding no opinions of its own.

.

April 4 – 14, 2025