The skin is the longest organ of the body. It’s like a map. An atlas of hair, bumps, bruises, scars and indefinite cell divisions. My skin is a cage. An exclusion. It’s originality makes it uncertain. It’s genius makes its different. And variables are hard to count for. The heat outside feels like an oven. Others don’t feel it. I can’t stand near windows. But the glare teases me. It makes me know the fact of the world I live in. It’s nuclear. It’s volatile. And my skin can’t stand it.