Synthetic Skin

Winter has closed in on me. I don't mind the cold, I enjoy being out in it, if I am warm enough.

But I never am. My winter skin is a pattern of open sores, death of a thousand cuts sores, bleeding out, staining my gloves, dripping down my pen.

Paperwork covered in haematological fingerprints.

I probably have Reynaud's Syndrome. Poor circulation, paralysed capilliaries. Cycling is agony. My ankle is a flaming mass of crackling skin. Moisturisers don't help, steroids only briefly. The wounds gape millimetres deep, washing my hands becomes a stinging displeasure, greatly exacerbated by my obsessive compulsive contamination fixation.

My unhygienic workmates make it all worse. My hands feel like an open invitation for syphyllis and other diseases carried by the unsalubrious. Norovirus magnet. Filth agents.

And still the wounds gape. In two weeks, I will look like a junkie with a penchant for carpal injection.

I wish I could have a skin transplant, or have synthetic skin like Commander Data. He doesn't have a problem with excema, jammy bastard. I want new skin. New skin for old ceremonies, Leonard Cohen said.

I want new skin for new bicycles and new gloves that don't lead to unbearable cold pain and chilblains.

Copyright Bloody Mulberry 02.12.13