You think you’ve seen her naked because she took her clothes off?
You’ve kissed her lips, and you’ve climbed inside her. Somehow you think that’s enough to know and love someone.

Tell me about her nightmares? The ones that have her twitching next to you as you snore on, oblivious.

Look down at your unblemished hands and tell me how many times you’ve cut yourself on the pieces of her broken heart.

Tell me why she paints,
Why she writes,
Why she takes long baths.

Tell me about her life, her childhood.
Tell me about the first man who broke her heart.
Tell me about her father and her brother.
Tell me about her demons, and her fears.
Tell me about her insecurities and the conversations she has with herself.

Tell me about everything she wants from life.
Tell me all the tiny little things she’s wished upon a star for.
Tell me why her favorite city is her favorite city.
Tell me why she flinches, ever so slightly, when you call her beautiful.

Tell me all the little things you hate about her, and I’ll tell you why I love them.
Tell me about her darkness, and I’ll tell you about her light.
No my friend, you may have seen her body, but you have still yet to see her naked.