Creative Writing by Jayme Zimmermann
Everyone that touches me says that I’m soft.
They caress my cloud like skin and admire.
They never stop to think that it’s just skin.
A fleshy exterior stretched over a framework of skeleton.
Do people just see me as soft?
Is my softness seen as weakness?
I hide things that hurt with witty charm.
But once they touch my soft, warm skin I become afraid.
Afraid that they’ll realise if they push too hard,
I may just fall apart.
Fall apart in their grasp,
like a sculptor moulding clay.
Trying to shape my softness to their desires,
but I just don’t fit the right way.
When will I be enough?
Questions like this cloud my mind,
the answer is always carried away.
Always too soft,
the clouds roll over and the softness spreads.
Skin stretching, stretching as far as it can,
leaving blazes of lightning,
scarred and embedded in me,
and then the rain starts.
It’s heavy and loud as it falls from me,
louder when it comes from others,
when the softness is tainted the storm clouds grow larger,
resulting in floods of disappointment,
a mother’s tears, a stranger’s disgust.
The storm grows within me,
but sometimes the clouds part and rays of clarity shine through.
For I may always be soft,
But it does not define me.
Feature Image: Daisy Peachman, Yak Media Designer