She undresses. Fears and insecurities, slowly and carefully unbuttoned. Wrinkled pretense, stripped and heaped at her feet.
And when she finally stands before us, crowded room of practical strangers, she is soul-naked and exposed, and we, the voyeurs, we stare.
She whispers quiet the bedroom conversations and tortured inner dialogues. She opens doors to her interior spaces. It’s the of space you don’t keep neat for guests.
She risks, divulging the bloody guts of what it really means to live wrecked.