I think I have always been clear
and laid myself bare—
This is what I like,
this is what I don’t.
Those are the things I don’t care about,
and those, I do.
But why the more open I am,
the more I feel misunderstood,
the more I feel invisible?
Is the price I paid
from being transparent,
you treating me
like layers too complicated to understand
that you negate
my complete entity?
Why do you keep looking for me
somewhere far away
when I am already here?
This is me.
This is who I am.
All naked, cold, and waiting for your hand.