Imprisoned Skin

We’re all prisoners to the skin we inherited. The most gargantuan organ of the human body is the first and only everyone sees, unless you get slit open with a scalpel. We all bleed red. We all shit brown. We all piss yellow. But we are all judged by the first impression. That’s beyond this greatest depression.

Psycho killers look at all of us based on that first impression. No more time to ask if you are Christian, Jewish, Muslim, American, European, African, Asian, etc. in the age of instant gratification and angry masturbation. They just grab their semi-automatics, their homemade pressure cookers, pipe bombs, and whatever vehicle of genocide to snuff out human live.

The most important thing about life is being alive. It’s the one and only thing the dead envy of us. Despite the pain, despite the anxiety, despite the everyday ennui, we are better off alive than dead. That’s the only thing the dead know.

The suit covering the skin is of no matter. It can be blue, brown, camouflaged, or a stained wife beater. We are all born naked and frightened, especially after the doctor’s spanking, but we all will die the same way. In a suit six feet under the world we once knew, or as a John Doe with an unmarked grave, absent of well-wishers’ and family members’ rotting plastic flowers.