As I stand on the old skin that shed from me,
The work isn't done.

Too long I have been quiet,
Taking the heat.

100 degree burn peeling off my delicates.

Hard to move but for once I am free.

It's a new day.

Fresh ideas cut through me.

Old wounds resurface.

I sharply inhale.

Then I realized my insecurities don't disappear.

They will always come out to fight me.

Don't worry, you're used to blood. You will prevail.

~ ~ ~
A/n:

Omg, this is my 80th poem!

"Others will never truly understand your journey." -unknown.

-Miss Yanxiet