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"A veces me siento como esta plantita… sigo de pie, aunque me falte el cuidado que merezco. Crezco sola, con cicatrices, con hojas marchitas, pero todavía con vida. 🌱💔"
You ruined me.
How could you?
I gave you my name,
my softness,
the keys to every locked room.
But worse than that,
I let you.
I pressed my throat
against your teeth
and called it love.
Isn’t that what love is?
Forging a weapon in your own blood,
placing it gently in another’s hand,
and hoping they will never strike?
You ruined me.
But I ruined myself more
believing trust was a shield,
when it was always
a blade.
-The Knife
I thought of hurting you back.
To rip the knife from my ribs
And thrust it into you.
To watch you bleed as I bled,
To see your tears drip down
Mirroring my own.
I wanted to carve my name
Into your heart as a wound.
But I can’t.
The knife stays embedded
In my chest.
Your heart is unscarred,
While mine bleeds your name
In a pattern I cannot unlearn.
Despite my lament, this is true:
I only ever knew how to love you.
(I trace the hilt of the knife just to remember the feeling of your touch.)
I fell for the person you were at the start only to realize that's what you were not.

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You came just like a tornado
not knowing where is next to go
your eyes blurred every stranger's face
while yours was filled with excitement's grace
your hands erased what "touching" held
eliminating all touches I've ever felt
your dancing words pushed dots away
left me begging and whining and for more to pray
your lips buried salt still stuck to my thighs
and filled me with love and taste and opened my eyes
your syllables made "guilt" and "shame" foreign
and made me understand why I was never inside the frame
seing me, you made me see I've never been seen
deserving only kindness and respect and nothing in between
and though sometimes you'd choke me breathless
and let me gasp for air, just reckless
your piano keys still showed my favorite canopies
and though some days you'd make me silent
and threw claims at me that were oh, so violent
you screaming bye was my most hurting lullaby
You left just like a tornado
leaving me not knowing where is next to go
your eyes gifted my eyes your shadowed sight
while you're moaningly resting in his bed at night
your hands gave mine shaking so much things are falling
while at night in ecstasis, all yours do is bawling
your dancing words made my words love hide and seek
while your words dance in trance around his cheek
your lips taught my lips the song of self-hatred
while your lips whitely drip all over his sacred bed
your syllables left hate and disgust for those men
while you fuck them again and again and again
You tore me into nothing but a tornado
leaving me wondering where is next to go
“Don’t ask yourself what you did wrong or how you could have done it differently. Don’t waste your valuable heart and mind trying to figure out why he did what he did. Or thinking back on all the things he said, and wondering what was the truth and what was the lie. The only thing you need to know is that it’s really good news: He’s gone.”
— Greg Behrendt, He’s Just Not That Into You
“Breathe. You’re going to be okay. Breathe and remember that you’ve been in this place before. You’ve been this uncomfortable and anxious and scared, and you’ve survived. Breathe and know that you can survive this too. These feelings can’t break you. They’re painful and debilitating, but you can sit with them and eventually, they will pass. Maybe not immediately, but sometime soon, they are going to fade and when they do, you’ll look back at this moment and laugh for having doubted your resilience. I know it feels unbearable right now, but keep breathing, again and again. This will pass. I promise it will pass.”
— Daniell Koepke
dawn
becomes
communion
warming my
soul
with kind
sky
as persona
You aren’t just beautiful. You are particular. The way morning light catches your cheekbone, the way your fingers fidget when you’re thinking — it’s not beauty I love, it’s you. And no one else is you.

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Love is so short, forgetting is so long.
Pablo Neruda
“I want to be with you, it is as simple, and as complicated as that.”
— Charles Bukowski
Oh God, I’m so tired. 6 July, 1927 The Letters of Vita Sackville-West to Virginia Woolf (1924-1941)

Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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“You had to be that person to become this one.”
— Rupi Kaur