After a while you learn the subtle difference Between holding a hand and chaining a soul, And you learn that love doesn’t mean leaning And company doesn’t mean security. And you begin to learn that kisses aren’t contracts And presents aren’t promises, And you begin to accept your defeats With your head up and your eyes open With the grace of a woman, not the grief of a child, And you learn to build all your roads on today Because tomorrow’s ground is too uncertain for plans And futures have a way of falling down in mid-flight. After a while you learn… That even sunshine burns if you get too much. So you plant your garden and decorate your own soul, Instead of waiting for someone to bring you flowers. And you learn that you really can endure… That you really are strong And you really do have worth… And you learn and learn… With every good-bye you learn.

Before you meet him, you’ll lay in bed and sing along to your favorite songs, thinking about nothing significant. It will be pure. When you start talking to him, you lay in bed, reading your conversation over & over again, memorizing & imagining how his voice would sound in person. It will be longing. During the good days, you’ll lay there with him, listening to your hearts fall in sync. He will play with your hair, and you’ll bite his neck. It will be beautiful. In the end, you’ll find yourself rereading the messages you so long ago already memorized, and it will feel like your heart can never fall into another rhythm. Your hair is in a pony tail. You aren’t playing music anymore. Your lips will be cracked and you’ll miss him. You will be broken. And hurt. It will be hell. But one day, you’ll pick up the pieces. Your heart will beat again. You will be alive. You’ll turn your music up and wonder why you turned it off. It will be pure once again.

Sex is not a goddamn performance. Sex should feel as natural as drinking water. It should not require confidence. Sex should happen, because the moment is ripe. Ripening lips, ripening labia, ripening c*ck, ripening pupils, ripening state of being. Ripe and augmented and brimming. Your energy goes to your pumping heart, then to every external nerve, then to theirs, on fire. You bask, roll, play in it. You sigh, moan, laugh. It’s not about being good in bed. It’s about being happy. One should never worry if they’re doing it correctly. Sex is not factual. I don’t want your cookie-cutter sex, I don’t want your meticulously crafted, calculated, fool-proof f*ck. I don’t want a show. I want you. Let your instincts, urges and whims define that. It’s enough. What do most girls like? Forget about it. Statistics are meaningless when there’s only one. Hello, here’s me. Here’s you. Don’t worry about taking it too slow. We got time. We got infinite rhythms, combinations, possibilities. Explore each f*ck. Take our time. We can do a different one later. Don’t worry about making me come. I’m here. Right where I want to be. I am overwhelmed by wanting; you don’t have to convince me. I want you because I like you. So don’t put on a front. Don’t taint this. I’m frustrated—it’s just authenticity I want. It’s originality. It’s passion. It’s joy. Don’t say that something I like is ugly. Don’t compare yourself to the rest. You will live and die with and within your experiences like everyone else. If someone thinks you are amazing, they are not wrong. Their universe is as real as any other; it is forged through perception. I don’t care if you accidentally slammed my head into the wall, if you slipped out, if my arm cracked, if the delightful pressure of your wet lips on my anything made a silly sound. There is no right way and no wrong way.Good in bed. What? You’re good in my bed. I’m pleased you’re there. I feel it suits you. Shove your technique. Let your memory swallow it. F*ck me like you’d f*ck me, f*ck me like you feel. This isn’t a test.