The water doesn’t ask me to be confident.
It doesn’t expect curves to be sharp or words to be clever.
It only asks that I let it hold me.

So I do.

I sink until the silence wraps itself around my thighs,
until the bubbles kiss places rarely noticed in the light,
until the ache of being seen and the ache of being hidden
start to blur together.

There’s no posing here.
No pretending.
Just skin. Just breath. Just softness.

And maybe, if someone looked close enough,
they’d see it for what it is—
not a show, not a tease,
but a quiet kind of offering.

Not because I think I’m irresistible.
But because I long to be received.

© Wynter Rayne 2025. All Rights Reserved.