I hate clothes. Always have always will. Clothes remind me of what I am not. They force my wondering thoughts to drift and remember that these pants don't fit quite right. I run my fingers across my waist discretely reminding myself that there is more of me here than I desire. Reminding me that you probably see all that I am not. But I desire for you to see ****. Not my body bare and sexualized, but a way in where my millions of masks are destroyed, and all that remains is me, my last years memories, and my this years scars. The things I hide from most I crave to let you explore. I want you to wander my tall forests, and find the bunny trails that I forgot to look for. I want you to dive into my deepest ocean and find the treasure buried underneath the everchanging ground; to look farther than the smallest star you see at night; to put my galaxies back together, and fix my constalations. I want you to find me. I want you to run your fingers down my spine and remind me of how I got that scar; to hold me, in this mess that I am, while our masks lay at our feet, with our clothes scattered in between. **** being all that remains.