My honesty is never bare enough; there is no subtlety I haven’t tried to flesh out. I am no longer reckless but aching to be irrepressibly free, spitting my heart out at the world’s feet and daring it to step forward. I am not indifference, nor I am contempt; I have and will be hope amongst your rubble and disdain. Raging on with open arms for anyone who must also say fuck you to mediocrity, whose stray passions trouble them at times and nevertheless keep them vibrant and excited. Everyone I’ve met have bad habits of their own. Our fists clench more than our teeth, and we chase time with those who put more substance in their bodies than in their souls. I want to be exceptional, I want to be inspired and inspiring and let my own sentiments wash away the residue of all those perceptions I held onto, only to let them gnaw away my sincerity.
I would like to be found endearing, and I will be comfortable with your flaws if you are comfortable with mine. I will remind you that your body is not unfortunate, but triumphant in a war others have waged against your dignity. Whoever you are, I would like to collect experiences with you; parenthetical moments that astonish the softness of our wounds and remind us why we can forget to breathe. We can stun them with our words and the innocence of each other’s laughter. We can invite love, that terrible, intangible thing; admit how we both dread and nurture the awakening of this insatiable animal of our bodies. I want to remain irretrievably impassioned, a traveler following the violet maps of her own bruises. And for every woman who may be beside me, we’ll disregard their cynicism as entirely unrequited, scrounging the remnants of those who know we keep more than madness in our mouths and delirium between our legs.