Not tattered nor torn by standards of normal bruises, just wrinkled, singed, and coarse. An unsettling, yet prudent roadmap blended into soft chocolate grooves in which I blithely endorse. Years of lingering soreness, a phantom discomfort, that would forever imprint beyond a physical scar. A mesh of serpentine and smooth pathways of soft caramel hues often leaving me in admiration, “Maybe I am bizarre.” Quivering with spasms, I gaze at the skin that covers my thighs, the cinnamon patterns of polka dot and lace. Skin that transformed and moulded my hands, ensuring the skin on my fingers would stay in place. Faced with many questions about the texture of my skin, My pale white palms and how the patterns on my arms swirled. Ears and face covered in clubbed knots. A misfit amongst a normal world. The fire burned and the smoke consumed, and before my four-year-old eyes, life was a flash. ...