Somewhere along the way,
it became spiritual to expose each thing in which was sacred and unique to her,
a woman stands before you,
a bright flash,
and a photo of her bare skin is somehow liberating,
falsely advertised by a mouthful of empty words,
that it allows you to "see into her soul",
but she's wrong,
and even she feeds herself into this fallacy,
in repetition shall it create an existence,
a void of thrill,
as to allude of what could be discovered,
and treasured by one who was true,
splayed open for the world to see,
every freckle and curvature of her body,
memorized by each of the masses,
those who gaze upon her
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