More Than Being Unknown

I hold myself in bed at night, grasping and pulling at my skin. Frantically tugging and pinching it tight, so that nothing and no-one gets in. I'm at a loss of imagining, what parts of me might be exposed, if the skin came to be unshackled, exonerated and decomposed. Would I be condemned to ruins dissolving into a puddle of waste, exposing down to the transparent core, the imposter that I have disgraced.

So much of our living is the being unknown, carefully choosing which sides we will show. Not being afraid of being, but mostly the being alone.

Learning I've been more alone with someone, than when I was on my own.