When I was born,

I was see-through.

Purple veins visible at my temples,

under creamy white paper skin.

When I was three,

I was scraped.

Patches ripped from falling

onto dewey apple blossom skin.

When I was eight,

I was colorful.

Blue pen sketches doodled

on otherwise tan skin.

When I was fifteen,

I was broken.

Red splotches blooming

on jagged vulnerable skin.

When I was twenty-three,

I was inked.

Black swirls tattooed

on sensitive dry skin.

When I was twenty-eight,

I was breathless.

His fingers lightly tracing

over nervous goose-bumped skin.

When I was thirty-two,

I was shaking.

My new baby sitting

on sweaty naked skin.

When I was fifty-seven,

I was opened.

Tumors taken

from sick cancered skin.

When I was seventy-three,

I was young again.

Vicariously living through grandchildren

despite wrinkly pale skin.

When I was eighty-six,

I was embalmed.

No longer having a need

for my limp, well-loved skin.