The discomfort of vulnerability slides inside of our skin. Unable to take it off it clings like the cheap cotton of underwear after a night spent in a stranger’s bed. Tightly our humility fills us up and we feel unclean, dirty in a way we can’t wash off. The fabric chafes on our stomach, wraps its way around our digestive system until we can no more more process our food than we are able to process our pain. The seams of shame press into our lungs, our liver, our lives until it feels as if the imprint will never come off. Our hearts, smothered, forget first how to love ourselves. It is here that we unravel. It is here that we begin.