Show me what you’re made of;

I’m not interested in air-brushed thighs

or botox smile

or cookie-cutter glamour.

I want to know what’s underneath,

where thoughts hatch dreams,

where secrets light your eyes.

Beneath the skin,

between the ribs,

where life-blood pounds

in veins of glass.

So

show me what you’re made of,

so I can let my mask fall,

autumn defoliation

that will leave us

au naturel.