Beautiful

I never understood makeup- girls and boys alike have always worn makeup to hide behind, conceal blemishes or heighten some scorn of beauty. And the body molding things- the tights, or girdles or push-up bras- I'm sure men don't like getting one thing and then finding out it's something else.
Men like getting what they see; they love women either way, and I believe every girl beautiful even if I don't want to have sex with them.
For me, it's the hair. I've got my hair to hind behind as it falls into my face nonstop, nothing but a nuisance while a much-needed curtain from the world. It's dark and it's heavy; perfect to turn my head and merely hide myself.
Or my clothes- am I really as tattered and unappealing as the clothes I wear? I'd like to think not, though I offer up the wrong impression when I grace the stage barefoot in tight jeans and a worn-out, over-loved, never-sewn green sweater in the middle of that golden, humid season.
When he pulls the clothes off of me, brushes my hair back from my face- I have nothing left. There's no curtain of makeup, there's no tattered clothes. Gabriel shows me what I am, hands drinking in my body.
With the lights on, and his eyes swallowing me; there's nothing left to hide behind save for myself.

And I'm all right with that.