The writer, the woman, and the lover in me, are all intertwined. I let someone become my muse, and I don’t know if that was the wisest decision I ever made.
I’ve tried being friends with women, I honestly have. The usual idea of ‘men being less drama’ doesn’t quite apply to me, because all the men I know are as, if not more, complex creatures than the women I know. I simply find myself unable to create a comfort level with other women.
You’re struck by her aura. It’s one of competence and capability. She might be a mess, but she’s a very precise sort of chaos. She knows what’s going on, and she’s not afraid of getting what she wants. She has an air of ability that stems from being able to simply understand the world around her.
Each inch of my flabby stomach skin makes me happy, because it’s a testimony to the fact that some day I’ll be capable of holding life in me.
I’m not the girl you can protect from herself, because I’m not fragile enough to break at every step. I’m hardened, and I have battle scars that possibly mirror yours.
Whatever it is, and however embarrassed you are of it. I want to know. I want to know all of you. Your quirks, your sadnesses, your triggers, your Subway sandwich order.