Everybody in our friend group has different skin.  Meg’s skin is fair, smooth but angry with hives.  Her skin is sensitive like a new maple sapling.  Bailey’s skin is rich with filipino heritage and muted caramel.  Ashley’s skin is tawny, like that of a deer.  Her cheeks are dusted with a mild coral tone, accompanied with bumps and beauty marks.  Olivia’s skin is like silk, a mellow beige, soft with compassion and warmth. And me, my skin is sickly, like I have lingered in the snow for too long.  

Bumpy faces, bumpy legs, bumpy arms.  Several of us have the skin of mountains -- cold to the touch, like sticking a hand in fresh snow.  Smooth faces, smooth legs, smooth arms.  Several of us have skin of velvet -- like a shooting star, a natural glow.  Our skin is the bark on a tree, smelling of rain and earth.  Our skin is the gravel on the perimeters of the road, beaten and battered. Our skin tells a unique story. Distinct, rosy, sickly -- our skin defines who we are.