Skin-deep.

Sometimes I feel like I'm no more than skin-deep. As if everything I am, my thoughts and heart and self, is no more than a thin layer of nervous perspiration, covering me like imaginary goosebumps.
And I find myself thinking that I'm not real. That whatever is showing is false, wrong and fake and deplorable, and I desperately fight the urge to claw myself free from my own fears. It's a haunting feeling, and in the shower I'm contradictingly surprised yet detached by the fact that no amount of soap or scrubbing will help. The fake exterior lingers like grime, covering the skin of my legs, back, breast - even the hand that is doing all the scrubbing. And I go for the face and neck, forcing water to my cheeks and nails to my throat, and still I am only skin-deep. Afterwards I feel foolish, and try to forget my own silliness. I look away, ignoring the red welts on my skin, reminders of fears that won't ever wash away.