I write romantic things for privileged women who call themselves girls much passed their girlhood. They read with me. They stare at the make-up on their faces. We are made up and lined. Every day, new lines. Crooked lines. Curved lines. Lines lines lines. I pray to whatever god I believe in that day for straight ones.  Oh lord, at least give me straight ones.  We use designer foundation to cover up bruises and buy long sleeve dresses in the summer. We feel happy when we shop for new garments to hide this black, that blue. Buying things buys us an hour or two, maybe three, depending on how dark the bruises, how black the black and blue. I hate the contradicting joys of it all; Masking pain with card swipes, Gucci to cover swollen eyes and flavored, soy coffee from whatever neighborhood cafe over-priced just enough to earn our support for small business.

Yes, I write romantic things for women who decided pride is worth more than happiness and social acceptance is the cost of life; Who had pleasant childhoods, despite your common girlhood eating-disordered obsession or little cuts dug into little arms, all fueled by some sort of peer rejection. We grow and die like leaves on trees and only scream for help when no one is near enough to hear it. The World is merely the people we know and the men who take it away from us one beating at a time. Culture is a Pinterest board named, “DIY Moroccan Party Themes.” And Love? Love is Time;  I refuse to waste it anymore.