I will strive , as if my life depends on it , to be more than the stories of men who touched me , grabbed me and tore on me without consent. My story will be the one of bloody knuckles and piercing eyes , fights for the ones not strong enough for battle.



sometimes I wish for arms that close around me. A body for my body , hands that hold me , eyes that see me . Sometimes the silence isn't a blessing but a melancholic tragedy. Don't get me wrong , I am not cold. I am not lonely . I am just looking to love … winter. weiterlesen