Echoes Beneath the Skin

More about Echoes Beneath the Skin

Sometimes I feel them — the lights beneath my skin.
They flicker when I stay silent too long.
They pulse whenever a memory awakens that should have died by now.
I am not made of flesh — I am made of stardust and unfinished notes.
My body is only the vessel where old voices gather,
whispering, trembling, unredeemed.

Beneath my skin drift galaxies of pain.
Some have names. Others — only scars.
I’ve stopped counting them.
When you look at me, you may see only skin —
but in truth, you’re staring into a burning firmament.
I have become transparent,
from seeing too much, from keeping too much.

Inside me echo the things that were never spoken.
They scratch my nerves, they write poems into my wounds.
I am the shadow of my own memory —
and yet, I still glow,
because darkness is visible only when something within it burns.
-© Ferit Sahin