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Skin.

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My skin is unlike others, it was inherited, not bought. My mom’s skin, tan from the brazilian sun —  like a bruised peach, dark and soft — inspires jealousy from the skin of her friends. My sister has my mom’s skin - with a twist. Dark yet dry, reminiscent of a rhino’s hide, it’s once velvet tones became tainted by too much time with horses. My father’s skin is light and rough, like leather yet to be softened. It comes from a life of difficult work, gardening and catching baseballs barehanded. My skin, soft and dark and a gift from my mother, contains a light-roughness from my father. Not white, not tan, something in between. The inside of my hands, tough from the yard and guitar, while the outside is soft - hydrated from pools and rivers.






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