The Unvarnished Self
I have worn so many faces—
some borrowed, some built,
like armor for the weather
of other people’s eyes.
But the morning always comes
with its honest light,
peeling away the lacquer
of yesterday’s disguises.
There is a voice,
quiet but steady,
that hums beneath
the noise of wanting to belong.
It asks:
What if you were simply
what you are—
not more, not less?
What if you stood,
bare as a tree in winter,
roots tangled in your own
untidy truth?
The world might blink,
might turn away,
but the wind would know your name,
and the sun would find
your unguarded skin.
So I gather up the pieces
I once hid,
and let them fall
like coins into the cup
of my open hands.
This is the work:
to be unvarnished,
to be whole,
to be the thunder
in my own quiet sky.
…
DCG
