You can't see me.
I have layer upon layer
surrounding me.
They are all different
colors, shapes and sizes,
hiding me, keeping me safe inside.
As time as gone on,
I can feel them getting heavy.
I carry them around anyway.
They get old, they fray, they tear
but I hold on to them,
these layers.
Because, well, what would happen
if you see me?
In fact, what would happen
if I actually saw myself?
I'm not sure what is underneath anymore.
As I have been hiding from you,
I have bee...
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