I shed a skin
worn from years of growth,
tattered from battles I’ve lost and won.
Born with this protection,
it no longer fits
Head first, I start to wriggle
out and away.
Light filters through holes I’ve made.
Moments of fitful choking, wheezing –
then purified oxygen.
No one ever told me that change
would be easy.
On the ground, shreds of a young child:
pink and white among gray and blue;
sweat and tears;
and the days when I believed I didn’t belong
inside my own.
Perhaps this new layer will radiate more
than the last one.
The past still lingering, I rip away
the final pieces.
Sensitive to the touch, grateful to be
No more stranglehold, no sandpaper
scratching my heart.
All of me sighs with relief to embrace
a present future.
I wear a skin
not yet touched by sin;
not withered, blemished, or stretched thin…
but still, I am
© Sara Letourneau 2007
Published in the 2007 issue of “The Curry Arts Journal”