This name I bear is generations old, this skin I wish I could escape has been passed down, father to son like an airloom nobody wants. Because each generation keeps scaring it, and each generation has tried to stop, but each generation just keeps defiling it like a picnic table; each trying to make their mark but just leaving less for the next. Each woman a chance to break the cycle, but for each new woman we only claw deeper, scaring too the heart but never ridding ourselves of this cursed skin. So I meet another girl, I use concealer on my heart, powder my insecurities, and put bronzer on my jealousy. And I tell her, I tell her I'm broken, I show her my skin and she laughs, traces her finger down my spine skinning me head to toe.