The Death of Skin

It flakes,
It sheds,
And only sometimes
We are aware.

But the slow shedding
Reveals the layer below,
Fresh and pink
With promise of new function
And, perhaps
Less ugly than the old.

You and I are shedding,
Our pretenses,
Our carefully positioned images
That show the best side of us.

Like new skin
It will feel raw for a while.