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“I’ve got stories under my skin— women whom I’ve adored in silence, to whom I’d offer my whole being if they asked. Peel my heart open like ripe mangos in August or Post-its left in prayer rooms. After de-converting, I sought repentance, relentless in my search for a cure in a man, longing for a "he" to dim the light in my eye that sparkles for curvy silhouettes and sharp tongues. But I found no one. My heart ached with an emptiness, my soul bellowing in darkness it didn’t need to endure.” — Jasmine Farrell
I’ve got stories under my skin—
women whom I’ve adored in silence,
to whom I’d offer my whole being if they asked.
Peel my heart open like ripe mangos in August
or Post-its left in prayer rooms.
After de-converting, I sought repentance,
relentless in my search for a cure
in a man,
longing for a "he" to dim the light in my eye
that sparkles for curvy silhouettes and sharp tongues.
But I found no one.
My heart ached with an emptiness,
my soul bellowing in darkness
it didn’t need to endure.