We don’t notice our legs until something makes us flinch. A photo, a stray comment, a mirror on a bad day—and suddenly they’re not just limbs, they’re a sentence. Angles become accusations. Lines become proof. You stare, compare, dissect, forgetting most of what you’re judging is simply structure, not sin. Bone, not blame. Still, the world insists every curve is a confession, every shape a story about willpower, worth, or weakness. You start to believe it, until another truth begins to rise from somewhere deeper ins… Continues…
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