The first button slips—
thumb and finger,
slow twist,
and I’m already breathing easier.

Second one,
then third,
the line down my chest starts to open
like a thought I’d been holding back.

You’re watching—
I can feel it,
that weightless kind of heat.

I don’t ask if you like what you see.
I already know.

My hands keep moving,
pulling fabric from skin,
layer by layer,
not in a rush—
but not shy either.

By the time the last one’s undone,
I’m not hiding anything.
And I don’t want to.