Knuckles

Today the skin of my knuckles split. Blood made a little stain on the back of my hand, and it stung. I saw the splotch, at first, earlier in the day, anyway, and it wasn't too bad, just a little red circle. Made no difference to me; I wiped it off with a quick swipe of shitty, two ply, high school toilet paper. 

Tonight, I saw it again, brushing my teeth in the mirror. It was no larger than a spot, a dot, but I had to put lotion on, because the skin was cracking all around it and making my hand hurt. So I put some on, thought I'd get it to go away. Waited for a while, reapplied, laid in my bed and put my headphones on. But it was still there when I checked again, still bright, and the split in my knuckles looked a little more raw when I brought my eyes up to it, a long line of blood painting the ridge of bone under my hand a deep red.

My skin was a little darker, I noticed. I liked that. A few years ago, I didn't go out in the sun as much, 'stopped getting so tan. I have photos of me, dark and pretty, beaming with the sun on my back, that make me feel a little guilty, like I've failed her, like she was looking at me in the picture and once I clicked to take it, her smile sloughed off of her small face the same way melting snow falls off of the roof over my room in the springtime.  

I remember random things, seemingly superfluous memories: she (I) used to lie on the grass, eyes closed, arms outstretched and open, quicksilver slip-streams of wind in my unbound hair, tangles thick and hard as boating knots. She (I) wore watches in the water, made the screen buzz under the surface so she could watch the stillness loosen and ripple, murky brown water shaken clear. She (I) didn't let her lips chap or her hands chafe--there was always lotion, always lip balm, twenty different flavors in plastic tubes she'd collect and tote around. 

My skin is darker, is physically lighter, and I'm putting more lotion on it when I can, drinking more water so my mouth doesn't crack in the corners and sting. And I am no longer that girl, but she is me. She still lives inside my chest, pushes her palms against my ribcage, and I know she can see how I smile with my teeth when the lotion slides on me, dark as she was, how the open windows are letting April air in that smells like my brother's nine year old blackberry breath.