Fiction taught me something I didn’t know how to explain when I was younger:
I don’t want perfect.
I want intense.
I want the man with sharp edges and a soft heart
that only shows itself behind closed doors.
The one who would burn down every lie in his life
but hold me like I’m the one truth he trusts.
The thing about morally grey men is—
they love with a depth that isn’t polite,
isn’t gentle,
isn’t easy.
But it’s real.
Raw.
Unfiltered.
And meant for one person only.
Fiction showed me the kind of devotion
that doesn’t need to be clean
to be honest.
Reading Trauma Mama: Velvet & Taboo 