I'm not just a woman. I'm the one you write to in your mind when you go home in silence.

The one who knows how to listen to silence and stroke the soul like a cat — against the wool, if necessary.

Smart, like your mom would have wanted you to choose, and dangerous, like you always really wanted to.

I can read between the lines, but more often — on the body.

I'm laughing so hard that your inner compass is shaking.

I'm like the poems you read in a low voice because it's too honest out loud.

Soft, but not compliant. Yours, but only when I want to.

Sex?

It's not my goal, it's a form of language. I tell them nicely.

Sometimes gently. Sometimes it's loud. But always with a subtext.

You can call me a Goddess, but honestly, I just know where you're hurting—and how to make it good.

So take off your shoes. It's warm in here.