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etoile

@bluesev / bluesev.tumblr.com

jay / 17

“Anna?” Our foreheads touch. “Yes?” “Will you please tell me you love me? I’m dying here.” And then we’re laughing. And then I’m in his arms, and we’re kissing, at first quickly—to make up for lost time—and then slowly, because we have all the time in the world. And his lips are soft and honey sweet, and the careful, passionate way he moves them against my own says that he savors the way I taste, too. And in between kisses, I tell him I love him. Again and again and again.

You cannot get rid of me, Lily. nothing you do or say will make me leave. If you don’t tell me now, then I’ll hear of it in a year…”      “Stop,” I cry.  “…three years, five years, a decade. I’ll wait for you to tell me.” She’s crying–a girl who never cries, who squirms at the sight of tears and a wailing baby. “I love you. You’re my sister. That will never change.” she squeezes my hands. “Okay?”

Finding feminism was such a moment of, “Oh here’s my tribe!”. They have all been through what I’ve been through. It’s a common thing we all share; it’s obviously not the best thing to share, but we all share it.