I’m tired of definitions. I’m tired of boxes. I’m too damn claustrophobic for boxes.
I’m good. I’m bad. I’m everything in between.
I’m easily swayed by emotions these days, but I’m as bad ass as they come.
I love pink and sparkly things and fairytales, but I will rock my thigh high black leather boots and this cleavage that the gods themselves are envious of.
I’ll be the most loyal girl you’ve ever come across, but I’ll light a bridge on fire to ensure I never cross it again.
I’m sweetness and warmth, but I’ll stand my ground and cut you down the moment you try to bring me to my knees.
I’m currently celibate, but I’ve got kinks to the moon and back. We could play, little boy, but I’d just break you.
I stand strong and dominate the world, but I’ll willingly submit to someone worthy enough for my trust. Until I decide I won’t…
I smile and laugh easily, but these teeth are sharp.
I have a strong moral compass, but I decide my own ethics.
I’m not a possession, but I’ve been known to temporarily loan myself out.
I’m flawed and messed up and often confused.
I’m in charge and in control and resolute, even when I’m making bad choices. ESPECIALLY when I’m making bad choices.
I’m impulsive and flighty.
I curse like a sailor with tourettes. And yes, I kiss my mother with this mouth.
I’m whatever the hell I want to be, whenever I want to be it. Because, quite frankly, this is my life, and life is far too short to be anything but true to oneself.