Don’t stop imagining
The day that you do
Is the day that you die…
The idea that sex is something a woman gives a man, and she loses something when she does that, which again for me is nonsense. I want us to raise girls differently where boys and girls start to see sexuality as something that they own, rather than something that a boy takes from a girl.
I’m still learning to love the parts of me that no one claps for.
"Do you love me?" The words were pressed against her tongue, waiting. But there never seemed a right time to say them.
"Do you love me?" She hated herself for needing to know. After all, his breath mixed with hers often enough to shut anyone up.
"Do you love me?" She whispered into the wind so he wouldn’t hear.
"Do you love me?" She said, but what she really meant was, "I need to know you love me before I do something stupid, like let you in."
What she really meant was, “you have seen me naked, all skin on skin, but will you stay if I let you see me raw?”
I just hope that one day—preferably when we’re both blind drunk—we can talk about it.
Call me at 4 am, and tell me it’s because you want to hear my voice.
It was one of those times you feel a sense of loss, even though you didn’t have something in the first place. I guess that’s what disappointment is- a sense of loss for something you never had.