Blisters on my bare skin.

I was trying to muster everything, every bit of emotion that permeates into the deepest portion of my bare skin, and turn it into something. I want to vividly describe its most miniscule detail, and to turn it into something narrative. But over the past years, everything that i said and uttered, germinating from what perturbs my being were so intensely dark. Each virulent emotion epitomizes lucidly my state of melancholic solitude, my moments of anguish, instances of pain.

And I got blisters. More than blisters, in fact. But I have to deviate or else i might feel the pain in its most extreme level. Or perhaps I didn't deviate away from it at all. I just get used to it - to that every single pain than hovers ardently and profusely within my being.

Now my blisters already turned pale purple. Tomorrow it shall get darker. And every moment, it will get even more, until it gets back to normal, and until it withers away as if nothing happened. But the moments of anguish and pain the blister brought, shall remain imprinted in the innermost depths of my memory. The pain might be gone, but it shall continue to linger - on my thoughts, and on my bare skin.