Thick Skin

I wrote the following in a moment of vulnerability- like I almost always do. I was struggling with my own identity and balancing being strong with being open. I've always felt that it's my job to be invincible- and I found myself questioning that invincibility when a romantic partner pulled the rug out from underneath me.

It's not a feeling I'm fond of, but it's one I've had to learn to cope with. Sometimes the hardest thing to do is be gracious with oneself.

What happened to the thick skin

I thought that I had grown?

I buried it the day we met,

I wish that I had known.

I wish that I'd known better

than to let you see me soft-

vulnerable to breaking

like a coffee mug you dropped.

I buried my thick skin that day.

I wanted you to see

that underneath was still and smooth

despite my misery.

But still and smooth was my glass shell-

the one you could see through

to where the horror of my scars

could only frighten you.

I guess I lied to you that day-

pretending I was soft.

Glass is vulnerable, you see,

especially when dropped.

So now I'll dig up my thick skin,

and I'll brush off all the dirt.

I'll wear it over broken glass

and hope that it still works.