Clothing I No Longer Needed

—what I shed wasn’t just fabric

I learned early how to keep my body negotiable—how to smile at questions, tilt my head, let silk and suggestion do the talking. I told lies with my open sheer blouse, with the intentional way I crossed my legs, with hips swaying just enough to promise nothing while offering everything.

My body never agreed. It flushed too fast. It leaned toward her name. It kept a diary—pressure, nails grazing, the precise pause of her hands, the metallic sweetness in the air before a lightning strike, when breath thickened and nothing stood between us.

Bury me with the lies I told.

Not an apology—only release. They served me once. They kept me aching, alive, clothing I no longer needed.

What remains needs no explanation between us. Two bodies unafraid of daylight. Heat shared without language. Nothing hidden—open, bare, free.