I’ve always loved the geckos that crawled around my childhood home.
Their radiant colors—blue, green, red—reminded me of a soothing, bountiful past.
What I loved most was their ability to shed their skin,
something I’ve envied since I was young.
A new life born of growth and change,
to emerge bigger, stronger, reborn.
I’d lie in the Hawaiian sun until my black hair gleamed gold-brown,
then wake excited to find my skin peeling away.
I’d tear it off in handfuls, feeling new,
as if my life were in my hands—
as if all I had to do was outgrow myself.
But as I grew older, the habit never left.
Instead, I began stripping my skin like a nervous ritual.
When I felt trapped, lost, or stuck,
I’d shear it away, desperate for the relief of renewal—
but it never came.
Layer after layer, I peeled with surgical precision,
only to find the same thing beneath:
the same bleeding flesh, the same corpse
I will one day have to abandon.
Still, I kept shredding myself,
hands slick with my own blood,
hoping that one day,
I, too, could leave this skin behind
and be born anew.
The Stones Bleed Like Me 