There’s two types of skin in my family—either you take after my mother’s side or my father’s. My father is a tall, pale man, his skin dotted with sunburn scars and thick, and black hairs dressing his skin like a suit. My father’s skin makes him look ten years younger, but the wrinkles around his eyes tell a different story.
On the other hand, my mother is a shorter woman with skin that isn’t dark, but isn’t pale. She is the color of caramel, with small white dots speckled all over her. My mother wears her skin like a robe that some days she wish she could take off.
I have two younger sisters, both taking after different sides of the family. The younger of the two takes after my mother. The same caramel-colored skin, but a small, soft, face that contrasts my mother’s. She wears her skin big in the behind, a feature that I envy. The older of the two takes more after my father, with pale, white skin contradicting the black clothing and dark makeup she prefers. Her skin is like a mosaic, thin red scars shatter her skin, they make me angry. My little brother seems to be taking after my father, his skin pale, soft, warm. Too young for scars or guilt.
My skin is thin, so thin that the bones poke through. Blatant collarbones, blatant hipbones, blatant knuckles. My skin is not soft, and it is cold, but my face is clear with a red tint. Sometimes I wish my skin was different; maybe darker, thicker, warmer.