She lets me see her
naked,
only sometimes.
I don’t mean you
to misunderstand me —
I have seen her
without her clothes.
I have seen her
without her paints,
without her artifice.
Truth, many have seen her
without these things;
she is a vain woman,
proud of her body,
proud of her grace,
proud of her spirit.
But I have seen her
naked,
once or twice,
wherein the layer of her
that is removed for me
is the last shroud against her
vulnerability,
and she is at last in only her
skin, without even
the pride that conceals her.
It is in these moments,
my love,
that I fear
for my own heart.
It is when she is
naked
that she is
most dangerous,
even as she believes —
perhaps because of her believing —
she has no weapon left
with which to cut me,
and yet
will leave me bleeding
from what depth of me
the blade of her
nakedness
can reach.
