With you, intimacy colours my voice.
even ‘hello’ sounds like ‘come here'.

Loving you was like going to war; I never came back the same.

Document the moments you feel most in love with yourself - what you’re wearing, who you’re around, what you’re doing. Recreate and repeat.

I want to make love, but my hair smells of war and running and running.

Mother says there are locked rooms inside all women, kitchen of love, bedroom of grief, bathroom of apathy. Sometimes, the men, they come with keys, and sometimes the men, they come with hammers.

all those nights with the phone warming the side of my face like the sun.