There is a blue oil under my skin.
It fills each and every pore,
Letting nothing out,
But letting nothing in either.
It suffocates and kills like a new breed of cancer,
Deadly and terrifying,
And I can’t tell if it’s alive or not.
It seems to grow and breathe.
Over time it had excreted a thick substance,
You could mistake it for skin.
It feels dead.
Like my aunt’s hands when she gets too cold and no blood can reach her limbs and they feel slick and hard to the touch.
Slick and hard,
Born out of slimy blue oil,
But self made.
I guess that means it can be diluted.