You glance toward it at first only to check the angle. A flicker of practicality. But then you linger. The light has pooled across your hipbones and collar. Your mouth is slightly parted. The mirror does not flinch. It does not look away. And it does not lie. The mirror has always been more honest than your lovers. More silent than your family. More present than your God.

Her body is ritual architecture. Her walk, a procession. Her gaze, an omen. You are not observing. You are witnessing. And you know what that means. Witnessing has a price. You may tell yourself you’re just curious. That it’s novelty. That you’re not into that. That you’re “normal.” But your cock isn’t. Or your cunt isn’t. Your body already knows what you’re not ready to admit. Because this isn’t porn. This is revelation.

You think you’re in control. You curate your appearance, your replies, your orgasms. You ghost, edge, pause, present. You decide when to be seen, and by whom. You move through the world not as an open body—but as a beautifully controlled interface. But when you’re alone… You crave to be undone. And not in chaos.Not in violence.Not in childish kink. You crave the kind of undoing that feels like a ritual—precise, intelligent, structured. Something so refined, it makes your de