My Skin, My Ceremony (a poem)

My skin is not just skin
She is memory,
She is map,
She is the moment I decided to love myself again.

She drinks sunlight like a prayer
She breathes herbs like gospel
She does not rush,
She waits for me to catch up.

Each pore, a portal
Each scar, a song
Each drop of oil
an offering.

I no longer scrub her into silence.
I ask,
"What do you need, love?"
And I wait for the answer to rise through my palms.

My skin is not to be fixed.
She is to be felt.

She is not a trend.
She is a temple.

And every time I touch her,
I remember that I am holy,
And always have been.