It wasn't just undressing.
It was more like every layer also peeled back my soft skin until all that was left was the waves of my veins and the light of my soul.
Lace down my chest and hips, but that never mattered to you, no.
You never paid any attention to how well I was dressed up to be a viewing pleasure for the wandering eyes, you only saw it as another layer.
You only saw it as more to dig through.
The rough torment of not being able to see my skin, my veins, my soul, my heart.
The clean silk wasn't pretty to you.
Ripping it apart until your fingertips find my scars, the dry spot on my thighs, my crooked spine, holding my cold hands with uneven chipped nails, you gaze at it all, as if my bones were made of that beautiful white lace.
