she looked at my thighs and told me they were a masterpiece. she traced the lines and poked at the spots and talked about the artistic choices.
she said all these beautiful things about the colors. she told me each spot had a purpose, a symbol.
she couldn’t take her hands away.
she would find constellations in my freckles. trace them with her delicate hands. tell me to stop covering them up.
i joked about connecting the dots. she didn’t respond.
she took my fingers in hers. she caressed my fingertips. took them from me when i bite on my nails.
she tried to teach me to love my body but instead i loved her.