Peeling the onion

Peeling back the onion

Skin of me,

Dulled layers of

Masks of versions of

Truths not really true.

Feeling the rawness of

Fresh flesh 

White and veined pungent

Their inability

Perhaps to be to

Exist in a world

That would have me

Be not me but be

Someone.

Keeping the pink flesh

Alive as it is

Seared by 

Sardonic gaze by

Withering glance

Dismissal doubt.

Scab and scar tissue

Is less vulnerable

Less sensitive

To touch.

Scraping it clear

Hurts.