What’s the oldest things you’re wearing today?
The oldest thing I wear is my skin.
It’s been with me through every phase, every fight, every shedding of who I was told to be.
This skin has known confusion, dysphoria, silence.
It’s been misread, mislabeled, mistaken.
It wore names I’ve since buried.
It held me tightly in closets I clawed my way out of.
It was called “girl” before I could speak “man.”
It carries the imprint of binding,
the memory of compression against ribs,
the ache in my back from years of trying to disappear.
It remembers summer heat trapped under layers meant to protect,
meant to hide.
There are scars, both chosen and given.
Lines from surgeries that felt like reclamation.
Faint stretch marks from growth I wasn’t supposed to have.
Marks I didn’t ask for but now claim as mine.
My skin has become something sacred.
It doesn’t forget the weight of being visible,
or the danger of being seen too clearly.
But it fits me better now.
It answers to the right name.
And even when it’s tired,
even when the world tries to make it a target,
it stays.
It stretches.
It protects.
It tells the story I’ve fought like hell to live.
Say it. Don’t spray it.