Yep, yep, my stretch marks.
Perfectly positioned. Uniquely laid. Gives my legs the longer, leaner look leading up to my banging booty in my bad high heeled boots.
And you thought that my thighs were a shade lighter than my skin tone? AHA. Gotcha. My stretch marks, so intertwined, act as an all natural skin brightener. Forget the bleach, reach- for the potato chips.
My stretch marks moonlight as a cost effective GPS system when I have deviated from the course leading towards my destination:
I just pull my shirt up a little, pull my pants down a little and I have access to any road map that I may need. Or when my man's hands deviate from the waist line, I kindly tell him to follow the road signs back to where he needs to be.
If you pour some milk and honey on my thighs, I SWEAR that you will see hearts, stars, and horseshoes.
The rumble in these jungles are reminiscent of San Andreas Fault line. Times 10. When I move my body like a cyclone, my stretch marks wave like a tsunami. Splash.
Admiring my thighs at night is like watching shooting stars. Make a wish. I promise it'll come true.
Don't hate on my stretch game. This has been ordained. It's up to you to press for the STRETCH mark of the high calling. Amen.
But eventually, my shea butter may make them fade away, which may cost me tons in gas money as I won't have access to directions. But, I'll remember that my stretch marks are the business. Plus, I heard that imperfections can get you major play, at least, that's what happened to Deelishus. Rumpshaker!
'Tis All.
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