I often liken myself to a flower. This flower had very beautiful petals and it bloomed gorgeously. One day, a group of men plucked its petals and used the ones they deemed important. Its other fallen petals mixed with the earth, and over time, this flower was constantly shed and plucked. Every time it bloomed, it would pluck its own petals, and others would pluck them too, but this time with its own permission. As for those other beautiful fallen petals, they mingled with the soil every single time, constantly being reborn.
People displayed this flower in a very elegant museum, and everyone did everything they could to see it and use it for their own pleasure; they were ready to do anything for this. They were obsessed with it, but they were actually there for themselves, not for that pure white flower. They didn't just stop at plucking this incredibly beautiful flower; they hurt it in every possible way—often through rape, often through violence, often by breaking it, often through emotional abuse. They knew it would be reborn anyway; it wasn't a flower that could die. Because it was already bound to this; it couldn't be reborn any other way, and it was used to it.
I just can't escape, I can't forget, and it still hurts just like the first day. This body, these petals no longer had any value in my eyes. While I couldn't value them myself, I expected value from harmful people for these petals. Being plucked was my worth.