maybe tomorrow night

every moment that I remove a layer

of clothing,

my heart skips a beat in fear

and desperation to be loved.

as a woman who spent most of my adult life

believing I’m only attractive with goosebumps on my skin and nothing else, the panic sets in when I’m exposed and something outside of me catches the attention of my lover.

“look,” the murkiness in my mind never fails to whisper, “even in the only setting you’re seen in, you’re still not worth every second.”

it’s hard not to believe the whispers when you notice the mindless movement and wandering eyes.

each layer of clothing finds its way

back to my body one by one while the goosebumps raise from the chill in the air and not the feeling of a lustful stare.

“maybe if you try harder to be loved, it’ll happen,” my brain whispers as I climb out of bed and into the morning.