I want another chance, a chance to get it all wrong. Don’t panic. I mean wrong in the right ways. I will be imperfect, emotional, sweet & sappy, sensitive & small, maybe even ask to be cared for instead of doing it all myself—become open, a little exposed? Let some light through the cracks. Take off the armor. I’m shedding it now, can you see the skin showing through?
I can’t get back what I’ve lost or what I’ve left behind—none of the small, sweet, sappy parts of me that I battered and fried in the vat of hot Napalm —but I can remove some of those hard won layers with a nasty Nagasaki-grade chemical peel (man, that burns, doesn’t it?) and reveal the red, raw like-new skin below. I can’t reverse age or turn back Big Ben, but I can remember what the spring air and sunlight feel like on my skin and open the fucking window.
I can do that for myself. I will. Let the sunshine in.