The Distance Between Skins

We think we are an island 

a solitary shape rising from the water 

self‑made, self‑contained 

untouched by the tides that carry other lives 

But we are not 

We are archipelagos—

separate only at the surface 

connected by the quiet bridges

we pretend not to need 

We all search for someone 

though we rarely admit it 

Someone to share the weight

of our unspoken hours 

someone to hold the pieces

we scatter behind us like breadcrumbs

for the brave or the curious 

We offer fragments of ourselves

to those who drift near—

a story here, a confession there 

a truth trimmed down

to something safe enough to survive 

We never give the whole 

Not because we are false 

but because 

we are fragile 

Everyone enters our life by degrees 

Circles within circles 

thresholds within thresholds 

Some remain at the periphery 

shadows moving along the outer ring 

Some step closer 

but never close enough

to hear the tremor beneath our voice 

We are Russian nesting dolls 

layered by caution 

painted by experience 

hollowed by the things

we cannot say aloud 

Each shell a version of ourselves—

the polite one 

the guarded one 

the one who smiles through the ache 

the one who knows exactly

where the fractures are 

And at the center 

the smallest figure 

the truest one—

the self we rarely let breathe 

the self we hope

someone will one day reach

without breaking us open 

It is not a hardship

to maintain the façade 

It is the etiquette of survival 

the cost of coexistence 

the quiet choreography

of being human 

Still, beneath every layer 

beneath every practiced mask 

we are waiting—

for the one presence

we will trust with the final door 

the one who will see us

without translation 

the one who will know

the distance between our skins

and choose to stay 

© Ron Simpson Jr. 

August 27, 2026