"Do you know that I write?" she said, her voice laced with emotion, "I want to be an author when I grow up but my dad didn't think it practical. My dad knows what's best for me. Do you know that I love when people play with my hair or tickle my back? Do you know I love God? Do you know I'm a big procrastinator? Do you know that I play with my hair when I'm sleepy and whenever I get into the car one must switch on the radio immediately, because that's just how car rides me be? Do you know anything about me?"
YOU ARE READING
{2} never alone.
Poetry"...we're hopelessly complicated and beautifully entwined, maybe we're ignorantly emancipated and selfishly try to prove it wrong..." lowercase intended.
