Bare

Bare

I stand without cover,

no shine, no mask.

Just skin,

lined and soft,

telling stories I didn’t ask to write.

Time whispers—

you’re fading,

but I am not afraid.

To be real is to be naked,

and I am still here.

I didn’t know age would strike like this—a slow, steady erosion, carving me down to something unrecognizable. I didn’t know how fiercely I wanted to live until death curled its fingers around me, close enough to whisper.

Now, when I look in the mirror, I see a stranger. My face a landscape of unfamiliar lines, my body a vessel I no longer understand. The mind inside—still sharp, still desperate—rattles against these bones, this failing skin.

How much I’ve demanded of this body. How many nights I’ve burned it to ash, how many mornings I’ve cursed it for rising again. And yet, here I stand. Alive, though I don’t know why. Still breathing, though I’ve tried to silence it.

The betrayal isn’t that my body has aged. It’s that it remembers. Every wound, every poison, every reckless, thoughtless act. And still, it carries me. Still, it endures.