Holy

Is that not the goal?

The old, raggedy shirt
worn
far too long.

skin that asked to be hidden
shows through.

Modesty...long ago, forsaken.

But truth,
where is it?

Sewn into disintegrating fibers,
kept alive by nothing
but
the tiniest thread,
weathered.

Still, I'll wear that shirt
'till there's nothing,
and every part of me is showing,
if I can just hide the truth.

Let it fall 
into 
microscopic specs--
hen-pecked by sun and wind--
down
to the ground.

I'll trade in every shred of dignity,
fight to the death
so the truth
can go unsaid.

Holy,
yes...

not in the way God meant.

-Jayme