perilous forests
lay bare: sheer, dark, and sincere;
so many secrets.

Why are there secrets hidden

Under the wallpaper—

Whispers

Under layers of

Distraction and movement

That have the urge

To drape a sense of stability

Upon eyes that cannot

View the mildew underneath—

When will it be time

To tear the peeling barriers

Away from rooms we need

To repaint—

No one wants

To see what lurks—

Their eyes are only drawn

To the surface-level patterns.

And then the night comes –
she smells of fog
and secrets,
with stars looking down from above
and remaining silent.

Being intimate

with people means having to --


share in their secrets.

I’m naked.
Exposed for the world to judge
And critique
And mold.

I’m naked.
Naturally, in my ******, I am ashamed,
Embarrassed,
Red-faced.
I try to conceal myself,
But my efforts are futile.
The parts of me that were most private
Are no longer.

I’m naked.
You drape me with invisible lavious robes,
You try to paint the illusion of modesty and security.
You gaslight me into thinking a dress of air is a magnificent feat.
But I am not the gullible “emperor” I once was.
The illusion has crumbled before it had the chance to stand.

I’m naked.
But that only means that they see all my surface;
Not the inside,
Never the inside.
For that, they’d have to cut me open
Pull apart my guts and bones
Look behind my eyes,
See what really lies within.
That they’ll never see,
They’ll never see me.
(Already, they’re seeing too much.)

I’m naked.