His soft hands at your waist constantly remind you of your imperfections. Thorns hold your identity. Your jagged body pierces palms. You would be all thorns if you could. Now plucked clean, stripped of all you were; you have kept each thorn in glass jars. Your bones hollow, more fragile than glass. Dried. Used. Showcased to old and new lovers’ below. Little victim girl. Your beauty is marred, though your fidelity to perfection resonates in an elegant face.