(in)decent exposure

In a state of being exposed.

Bring forth thyself and bare it.

Within the dark slimy chasm called "us" I've plucked shame.

Too naked for my liking.

Clothes of conformity fit perfectly.

But the tag's not been cut.

Oh, it's irritating!

But in a way that festers quietly and often unobserved.   

It doesn't like being ignored. 

It needs my attention.

So it twists. 

And morphs.

And contorts. 

And it all just gets weird.

I'm lost now in a wacky space.

On a road that doesn't exist and goes nowhere.

I wander through.

Propelled by some mysterious innate drive. 

I find more roads that don't exist and go nowhere.

But seemly by chance I find a hole.

It's existence appears fluid.

Slightly opaque.

And within, 

a note.

Waiting. 

"The fucking tag man!"

THE FUCKING TAG!

I pull.

I yank.

I bite at it. 

But the bitch won't budge.

So I consult the universe in regards to a remedy for this pesky passenger. 

This way will work.

Until it doesn't. 

This is it.

Until it is not.

Someone yells,

(although I think it was me?)

"LOOK at the tag!"

And wouldn't you know it 

but there's a picture of me,

all of me,

every inch, 

exposed.

self love

for now ►

Comments

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Douglas MacGowan

Mon 15th Jan 2018 00:19

Full circle with the concept of the tag. The presence of the tag on an article of clothing always makes me feel that is still not 100% mine and that something "other" has partial claim to it.

And I like the plea being both written and spoken (shouted), making it harder to ignore than if it were one or the other.

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