Skin

My skin is growing thin.
The youthful firmness of my jaw
is melting downward,
flesh now pools in concentric circles
around my knees and elbows,
like the ripples in a pond
flee an intruding stone.
A moonscape of meteorite scars
that were always there
now exposed by the erosion of time
on the continent of my face

My skin is growing thin,
can no longer contain
its habitual yeses,
does not stretch and give
like it did
during the spring of my blossoming,
now midsummer
its lessened elasticity
no longer accommodates everyone’s demands
all shiny possibilities
every intriguing suitor.
I am learning to say no.

My skin is growing thin,
becoming righteous intolerance
and short fuse impatience.
It can no longer abide
dogs barking next door
pundits barking their wares
blind and deaf fools
convulsing chaos around me,
the common lack of sense and meaning
the apathy and obliviousness of those
outside my tribe.

My skin is growing thin,
so I retreat to safety
silk and bones to encase me
protective cocoon keep me
whole
in integrity
while I wait for my metamorphosis.

You see,
my skin is growing thin
but it’s
still

growing.

© S. Rinderle, 3/20/14