Naked

By D.C. Crite

Healing was messy

My once hampered heart,

longing to be free of

sadness and pain,

was clothed in

fancy garments

that hid my scars and

some still gaping, festering,

pus-filled wounds —

remnants of

harm from others,

harm done by me

to others.

Before I could heal

and let go of

what ailed me,

I needed to bare all,

strip off

the shirt of shame,

peel off pants

held up by self-pity,

buttoned up by pain.

I removed every layer

that hid

the inner turmoil,

all the way down to and

including the ugly underwear of uneasiness

that came with re-awakening

childhood ghosts, a bogeyman

nobody wants to face.

I took it all off

so that I could

reclaim my power,

heal myself,

love myself,

know myself.

There I stood

in the mirror of my mind,

emotionally, in the flesh,

fully exposed,

completely vulnerable,

crying out for the world to see.

I had to become naked

to heal.