26/01/2026
A poem about an auto immune condition I have …
“Under the Skin”
My body writes storms beneath the skin,
small wars in tender places
no one sees
unless I let them.
Fire blooms where peace should live,
and every step
is a question mark.
Will it hurt today?
Will it bleed?
Will I have to pretend I’m fine again?
I learn the language of pain
fluently.
It speaks in swelling
and whispers in scars.
It leaves signatures
I didn’t consent to sign.
Doctors call it chronic.
I call it a thief—
stealing sleep,
stealing touch,
stealing the simple joy
of forgetting my body exists.
Clothes become negotiations.
Mirrors become enemies.
I memorize where to stand
so no one notices
what my skin is shouting.
Some days I feel betrayed
by the very thing
meant to hold me together.
My own flesh
turns into a battlefield
with no ceasefire.
And yet—
I wake up.
I wash the wounds.
I go outside anyway.
I laugh with friends
while carrying a secret
that burns.
This is what survival looks like:
bandages under confidence,
courage under compression,
a soul learning
to live inside a body
that forgets how to be kind.
I am not weak
for hurting.
I am not broken
for flaring.
I am proof
that even inflamed skin
can still house
a heart that refuses
to quit.
….for now….
