Running out of words to write.

Running from the stage,

from the spotlight.

I know the masquerade that writers do.

I’ve torn it off and bared my soul,

scarred and misshapen

as it is,

then I’ve smiled when people clapped

like writers do,

seen through the haze of

a multitude of gazes.

What is intimacy?

If not to peel off my mask piece by piece

and look you in the eye while

I peel my skin.

To feel like a fruit in the sun

that you see a seed,

and accept that maybe you see better than I.

To say this is me when I was a girl

and let you love me then

and let you love me now.

I’ve written my heart in words 

and read it to the world,

but nothing frightens more than to say

this is my skin and beneath it my blood,

hold me and maybe I’ll put my pen away

and maybe I’ll never write again.