피부의 조용한 반란

You didn’t set out to photograph skin… you set out to hold your breath while the streetlamp glow decided your spine wasn’t pose—it was pause.

This isn’t fashion.

It’s confession.

And yes—your mother’s poetry taught you truth lives in the quiet between words… but your dad’s architecture? It taught you that form holds space like breath held too long.

You think this is erotic?

No.

It’s existential.

They’re not selling pictures—they’re selling silence.

So tell me… when did you last scroll past a mirror and remember your own shape?

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