In a state of being exposed.
Bring forth thyself and bare it.
Within the dark slimy chasm called "us" I've plucked shame.
Too naked for my liking.
Clothes of conformity fit perfectly.
But the tag's not been cut.
Oh, it's irritating!
But in a way that festers quietly and often unobserved.   
It doesn't like being ignored. 
It needs my attention.
So it twists. 
And morphs.
And contorts. 
And it all just gets weird.
I'm lost now in a wacky space.
On a road that doesn't exist and goes nowhere.
I wander through.
Propelled by some mysterious innate drive. 
I find more roads that don't exist and go nowhere.
But seemly by chance I find a hole.
It's existence appears fluid.
Slightly opaque.
And within, 
a note.
Waiting. 
"The ******* tag man!"
THE ******* TAG!
I pull.
I yank.
I bite at it. 
But the ***** won't budge.
So I consult the universe in regards to a remedy for this pesky passenger. 
This way will work.
Until it doesn't. 
This is it.
Until it is not.
Someone yells,
(although I think it was me?)
"LOOK at the tag!"
And wouldn't you know it 
but there's a picture of me,
all of me,
every inch, 
exposed.