How difficult it is. To be yourself. To accept the skin that you’re given.
How tiring it is. To be yourself. To give others the ability to get under the skin that you were given.
How daunting it is. To be yourself. To wear with pride the skin that you were given.
How beautiful it is. To be yourself. To relax into the skin that you’re given.
It’s dangerous, is it not? To be vulnerable, to let the leather wear down and the soft flesh show. To give someone the flint to sharpen the blade which could cut.
It’s terrifying isn’t it? Your bare skin laid open like a map to your heart, letting someone use echolocation with the crack of your voice as slat water wells in your eyes.
It’s thrilling isn’t it? the way it’s someone else seeing the parts only the mirror had. The way your breath itself is enough for them to understand every word you hadn’t said.
It’s beautiful, is it not? To feel with someone that despite you having given them Excalibur, the ability to cut you down like corn in a field,
Instead they rub balm on the wounds that were already there.