There is no idea but to cover up or clarify how those folds got there.
And if belly is soft then explain that a baby once grew inside it or if breasts lack complacency, make sure to convince them that it’s from feeding or genetics. Or lie about exercise regime or explain that work hours overlap possibility of sit-ups or weight lifts.
Bodies are like snowflakes are like fallen secrets pressed against windows are like reflections are like sharp implements are like dangerous exaggerations are like predators.
And in a room full of humans, take note of the shapes that take shape within the shape of a space.
Ninety-degree angles and triangular justifications and octagons and rectangles and its been awhile since my body existed inside a classroom where numbers were examined but I’m quite sure there is a reason for all these symbols and figures to differ.
I disrobe and replace mirror with an audience / distract eyes with poetry so stretchmarks are an afterthought.
But don’t all our bodies stretch and without those marks couldn’t we assume that body as one of static…no movement…no evolution of self?
It’s ok that you notice the blurry lines on my body. The ones beside the scars. The ones that arrived as I arrived into my bones.
We all began as nudes. As empty. As exotic folds. Put away your irons and embrace the wrinkles and grooves.
Clothes are just an accessory; what whispers underneath is the truth of beauty.