Strip for me and show me your God self.
Show me your open wounds of insecurity that you’ve been stabbing at for years, loosen your bones and show me where they cracked years before I knew you. Show me how you cry when everything gets too much even though other people deal with twice as much before noon; I don’t think you’re weak.
Unhinge your jaws and uncurl your tongue, devour me so I may explore you from the inside to see all the memories lodged in your spine.
I’ll never tell a soul about the time you failed or how your mother cried.
There are ways you are similar to the universe and I see it when you’re nervous, the way you drift between the rifts of yourself and how your mouth twitches.
Strip for me and let me see.
Let me see the painful images you’ve shoved down your own throat for years, scream them out over the city.
Walk me through all of your metamorphoses; show me the heaps of hair you’ve cut of when it became too heavy a burden to bear. Show me when you were on the floor of the kitchen begging for sunshine in the middle of winter because you couldn’t see yourself. Tell me all your lies.
I want to lose myself in the sensation of wanting to taste you. I’m impatient, beyond eager and your grin just makes me delirious.
Strip for me.    


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