They call me “naked”,
but that is not true.
At best, they see me nude.

All that they can see of my body,
the scars and stretch marks,
no more define me
than would my shadow.

To see me naked
is to look beneath my skin
at the raw, emotional heart
beneath the still facade.

And for all the efforts to strip me down
and set me on display,
they will only ever see a body –
they will never find the real me.

Because I am a party
that is invitation-only,
and it’s hard to earn a ticket
to the symphony of my soul.

So call me what you will,
but know I’ll judge your words,
and if you dig this deep and call me “naked”,
then I think you’re being shallow.

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