I love women who are hard, who are calloused, whose fingertips are yellowed from cigarettes, who never divulges into their vulnerabilities until they give you little conversational snippets that you don’t dare pry into, who are aggresively maternal regardless of if they have children or not, who are rough and tactile and smart.
I love women who are soft, who are sensual, who see you watching them doe eyed in the corner of their room while they apply makeup and gently offer to paint your face, who sing with no music playing, whose touch feels like that first glossy swipe of paint on a canvas, who are delicate and intentional and graceful.
I love women who are unsure, who are unsteady, who find it hard to love the body their soul chose to keep, who speak quietly in fear of being too deeply seen, who diverts eye contact with confident people, who are timid and placable and painfully sweet.
I love women who are bold, who are secure, whose voices are sharp and fill the room with intensity, whose faces are sculpted with the severeness of a wicked thunderstorm, who are quiet in demeanour but demand attention with it simultaneously, who are assertive and statured and fierce.
I love women. Every earthly version of the feminine I encounter I keep within me. I am the amalgamation of every woman who has had an influence on me. I am no contradiction. Everything about my existence is intentional and wouldn’t be so without the women in my life.