Skin's Echo

It clung there tight, a plastic skin,

protecting what was deep within.

A paper cut, a silly plight,

now healed and hidden from the light.

I pulled it slow, a sticky drag,

a sound like fabric, in a bag.

The adhesive fought, then let it go,

a faint, sharp sting, a little show.

And underneath, a tender space,

a paler patch, upon my face

or hand or arm, where it had been.

A ghost of hurt, a brand new skin.

It left its scent, a rubbery smell,

a small reminder, hard to quell.

The wound is gone, the fear still keeps,

where skin forgets, and memory creeps.