I hold in my hand, a flower.
Delicate, soft, fragile.
  And from this flower, I pluck.
   It's petals. I pluck the petals.
    I take the petals to show my love.
     I take its clothing to reveal my heart.
      Each garment exposing another inch of cool, soft skin to show
       hard, muscled veins.

What is the real mask?
  The clothing, or the skin?
   What am I trying to hide?
    Isn't my love enough that you shouldn't wonder?
     No.

So, I pluck.
I pluck away the petals to reveal what is inside.
  The ugly.
   The bad.
    Because that is love.

So go ahead.
Take my clothing
  And pluck these petals.