How hard it is to bare
A fragment of the soul,
And easy to show the body,
Believing someone might glimpse
A doubting hope.

They speak of nakedness
While hiding every single piece
Of the naked soul
That holds secret knowledge,
Burning or embracing,
Depending on its purpose.

How many times have you said:
“Here I hurt.
Here I am, real.
Be careful
I might fall apart
If you move my heart
Too strongly.”

And how often have you searched for more veils
To hide the fissures,
So nobody would come
To scratch old, unhealed wounds?

Yes, we are full of unspoken things,
Longing to be recognized
Without fear
That being seen
Could mark the beginning
Of our destruction.

We open the windows for a while,
Then close them completely,
Not hearing the thunder,
Or the sweet music.

Only these naked bodies,
Laughing before hungry eyes,
While the souls inside
Weep
Ready to be open.