Shreds

Some days I just need to ruin something. Today it's my wardrobe. I grab the scissors and start cutting—slipping the blades through silk, lace, delicate fabric that never stood a chance. Piece by piece, everything drops to the floor in useless strips. The stockings get it last, thin nylon giving way with a soft rip until they're nothing but hanging threads. I like the way they cling anyway, torn open at the thigh, at the calf. My bare foot flexes against the ruined fabric. Feels good. Feels right. I slide my hand between my legs and let my fingers take over, slow and deliberate, pressing where the stockings no longer cover anything.