Shedding Skin

The skin I wear when I go outside isn't really my skin. Not really. I mean, physically, yeah. It's mine. I more mean it isn't---raw.

This false skin has layers. It starts when I peel off my super comfortable pajamas and ratty underwear. I put om prim, clean panties so I won't die of embarrassment if I get killed and the coroner saw them. I put together some co-ordinated, clear "outfit" so anyone who looks at me will think I'm a well put together, adjusted girl. I am not, of course, but not anyone should be able to tell just by looking at me.

Then, I straighten my hair instead of leaving it messy. I grab my purse. My cell phone so I can be reached at any point in time. I then put my headphones in my ears so that I cannot.

And then I feel "ready".

But you know, I'm not really. I think I'd only be "ready" if I could shed all this and expose my skin, raw and pink. I'd be ready if I could expose my own tenderness and vulnerability. I'd be ready if I could say; "I know it's not much, but it's all I have. Do you think you could love me anyway?"

There is, however, someone I am so naked for..

And I must confess, he appears to love me inspite of (or perhaps because of?) that skin that so few people have seen before.

It gives me confidence.