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Stripping out of my clothes and standing in the mirror,
Crying over the way my breasts mound,
(For they seem to make eyes stray from my face far too often).
The way my stomach only falls flat when I neglect to eat,
And how it doesn't matter either way,
Because my ribs steadfastly refuse to close.
How I wish they would close in on themselves, 
Tucking away and hiding their form from my sights. 
(Like a bird might there wings)

This wouldn’t stop them from staring though. 
I remember the way he looked at me, 
The way his fingers curled into my stomach,
(Or really anywhere he could worm his way too).
Wow, you're so ticklish. 
No, maybe I just don't like being touched (by you).

But I’m selfish, 
And picky. 
I hate how ugly I am, 
But I also hate when they stare.
It's never romantic,
(dry of the candle light dinners).
It always seems like there stripping me of my clothes in there minds,
(Stripping me of my dignity?) 
But it makes me feel like just maybe,
They have yet to realise how plain I am. 

So I strip for these foolish eyes,
Slowly peeling off my respect,
And stepping out of my self love in the sexist way I know how. 
Unclipping my virtue,
Letting it drop to the floor. 
My confidence is torn off next, 
Pulled down my legs and buching around my ankles.
Now I’m laid bare,
My naked body (and soul, and heart I suppose) ready to be taken,
By eyes that might give me the love (though it's not really love) I refuse to give to myself.

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