Love Life & Die

There are men with whom you want to be a woman. Interrogatively, gently tilt his head, squint through eyelashes, shake his head with an understanding view, listen to inspired speeches, glow with a half-smile style, "we are of the same blood." I want to be frank - but not on all topics, but only on those that are just not taken frankness, other topics with them are not at all important. I want an outstretched hand, I want to touch my shoulder, and yet: to know that all this nonsense from books for teenagers is still not quite nonsense. Well, do not whisper "dear", of course, and generally without vulgarity, but somehow it is. To spark in the pupils and surprise in the interlocutor, because it's beautiful, because the game. Yes, I certainly have to pick up the bag. Yes, I certainly hold. Yes, I definitely never in my life will be able to pour myself tea. I will spill, splash, confuse, burn, stretch, fall, break, cut, catch and die. Thank you. Yes, save it. Yes, stir. Yes, to stretch. And let them straighten their shoulders and sit down: they go. Not everyone, only them. With the rest, this looks ridiculous and childish, inappropriate and almost obscene, but just stupid, after all. And with these you can: at least for the fact that only they alone have this tender, weak, unbearable, soft, warm fossa near the neck just a little to the shoulder, into which one and can be buried with a grateful tired nose.

Victoria Reicher "Polisexuality"

thank you steemians friends