I think it's rather tragic, actually.

... maybe if i covered myself with tattoos or just paint shot myself with guns filled with ink and lipstick and perfume and moved to the city, dressed in graffiti (both me, and the city) i could camouflage myself amongst the grit and the dirt and i could hide and then nobody would ever have to see me again as savannah but a work of art, some would call me is that a banksy, they’d inquire because they would think i was made of bricks or concrete or bicycle tires ... - Excerpt from Grafitti by Savannah Brown

The smell of your hair puts my stomach in knots. I want to lay roses at your feet. I want to pray at the church of your hands. I want to thank you for every awful thing you ever did to me. No one will ever be able to knock the wind out of me again.  Not like that. Not like you. - Trista Mateer

To the quiet one, the coy, the wallflower. Her dark circled eyes buried in a book. Hard little nipples, dusty pink, beneath a tatty black singlet. Those restless legs, sprawled across a squeaky bed. Her secrets kept, like pressed daisies hidden by pages read. - Michael Faudet

There were blades in my hands. I was carving my name into your side and you were calling me soft, calling me gentle.  I do not think you were paying attention.  - Trista Mateer

we began  with honesty  let us end  in it too  - rupi kaur