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each time her bare front
is full with illumination
she is defined by the mystery
of infinite black behind her

and at her most enlightened
is dappled with caters and scars
ensconced in darkness
lined by an aphotic slivered edge

shadow speaks
most deeply

of the ways
in which
she moves
Ali Cronin May 2014
Each day, my rotten flesh
Is being picked away.

The scabs blossoming
With their rosy red smiles,
So crystalline
And bright.

And as I shed my winter coat,
The sad mass of green goo,
A figure, raw and sick,
Is left behind.

From thick
To thin.

Now ******
And bare,

Somehow this spring breeze
Is more like poisoned air.
Lucille Flott May 2014
Feeling torn down,
just waste on the floor,
is when I feel my safest,
because,
it’s these times
that I actually feel human.
Being stuck on the floor,
bare and sopping with tears,
let’s me know that I matter to myself
K Apr 2014
****** is not *******,
skin is not something to hide.
You are not a body with a soul,
rather a soul with a body
that you needn't be ashamed to show.
Feel the sun on your chest
and the grass between your toes
and breathe in contentment
as the wind writes poetry on your body
with it's gentle, kind mouth.
Do not be offended by human anatomy,
an elegant miracle held bare in its glory.
The vulnerability of baring myself fully
clenches the belly
panics the heart
stands my hairs on end.

It is truly the most terrifying thing
to stand in ones authenticity.

And yet. And yet.

The courage it takes.
The great tender strength.
The spine tingling elation.
The heart swells, and magic.
The naked beauty borne, in feeling you have nothing to hide.
The spirit touched ardor of a bare approach to life.
The openings and the mystery.
The expressions: tripping, falling, incomplete, misguided.
The wonderful mistakes, elucidating lessons.
The perfect imperfections.
The easing of honesty.
The engendered humility.
The profundity.
The sense of being touched, touching, and in touch with life.
The unmasked revelations, of full spectral undulation.
The this. The that. The I can accept it all.
The dropping of shame.
The incredible liberation, in shedding that shame.
The finding forgiveness for self, for other.
The quiver of unknowing.
The sweet caress of potential.
The dread. The sorrows. The uncertainties.
All making room for, in their acknowledgement:
Room for what else is there.
Room for laughter, and joy, and luminescence.
Room for flirtation, dancing, spontaneity.
Breaking open.
Melting into Love.
Soaring on the wings of Truth.
The hush, of anxious worry.
The Goodness bestowed.
The empathy.
The compassion.
The connection.
The holy restoration of creative flow.
The fires of real passion.

And everything.
And everything.
And Beauty.

— The End —