A lot of people hate books because reading somehow feels like holding a mirror against our brains instead of our faces: it demands our minds to be completely naked.
The classic fear of being vulnerable and being found inadequate.
After we have undressed from our ideas and opinions.
After we have stripped away the lingerie of dreaming and heartbreak.
After we have torn our veils of memories into fragments irretrievable.
Who are you after you have discarded your skirts and stories? Who are you after you walk out of your pants and plot twists?
Would you call yourself beautiful?