You don’t know anything about me. You don’t know what I’m made of or just how much I’m capable of. You don’t know where I’ve come from nor where I’m heading. You know nothing of my highs or my lows. You don’t know how fast I am, how strong I am, how resilient I am. You haven’t got a clue what breakfast cereal I eat, what fragrance I wear or who I’m dating. You don’t even know my name.

Our hearts beat so loud the neighbours think we’re fucking
when I’m just trying to find the nerve to touch your face.
by Andrea Gibson, Pansies
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I like my coffee how I like myself: Dark, bitter, and too hot for you.
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