By Sara Ponferrada Reed

Good morning. 

You stare at yourself in your full-body mirror as you get dressed for today. You pick out your top, your skirt, and the shoes that will go perfectly.

You slip the shirt over your head and squeeze it past your breasts. You look back at yourself, flattening the fabric, convincing yourself that this looks good on you. You move onto the skirt, one that you haven’t worn in ages. Once you pull it up and zip up the side zipper, you involuntarily frown.

This doesn’t look right.

Is it me? 

You look at your reflection and you just see your skin—vulnerable skin that hides beneath the clothes you funneled into, skin that harbors years of “life experience.” You feel your cheeks moisten with uncontrollable tears. You don’t see yourself or the “you” you want to see.

While you’re staring back at yourself, you notice a small scab on the outside of your left bicep. It is tiny, hardly noticeable, but the intrigue to pick at it is immense.

You take your right pointer finger and pick at it until it peels off. The scab begins to loosen, and bam! It is off. Phew, what a relief!

The scab hangs, attached to the smallest bit of your arm. You pinch it to finally remove the scab, but as you pull, it rips into the surrounding skin. You wince. This hurts. But you keep pulling, determined to remove this scab.

You’re bleeding, but you keep pulling.

A good inch of your skin has now been removed, underneath is this bright pink which has yet to see the warmth of the sun.

You undress so you can keep pulling.

Your arm is now uncovered, and you say hi to your new skin. You stare in awe at the freshness, the novelty. 

You pull until “naked” has a new meaning. Until there is no sign of age, no sign of experience, trauma, or growth.

You marvel at your new nakedness. But, you have removed the character, everything that has made you who you are from the day you took your first breath of Earth air. It’s all gone, on the floor at your feet. 

You put on the outfit you picked out for today back on: your top, your skirt, and the shoes that will go perfectly. Again, you slip the shirt over your head and squeeze it past your breasts. You pull up your skirt and zip up the side zipper. 

Now, you stare at the outfit over your fresh, bright pink skin.

Wait. This doesn’t look right, either.

You don’t recognize the person you see before you. Who is this? She is not the same person as the one on the floor at your feet.

You sit cross-legged on the floor next to the pile of yourself and analyze what you have just done. What made you think that this new skin would solve your problems? You still want to pinch the sections you’d love to remove. Your frown is still an involuntary tic. You still don’t feel comfortable in the outfit you chose.

You brush the pieces of you into a pile and desperately hug it against you, pulling it over like a coat on a winter day. You beg that any of it sticks. 

Will anyone recognize you today? But most importantly, will you recognize yourself?

*   *   *

Sara Ponferrada Reed is a 21-year-old writer and poet based in Cincinnati, Ohio. Her work focuses on topics such as mental health, love, loss, self discovery, growth, and assessing deeper emotions. Her poetry has been published in Turtle Way Literary Journal.