my mother raised me in gardens, in the tangles of ravines and the hollows of oak trees. i learned to cast a circle before i memorized the times tables. she taught me to worship women with eyes darker than the sea; with shoulders like altar tables and spines of anathame.
so it’s no surprise i fell for a girl with a mind burning brighter than any flame i’ve held between two hands — a girl with a mouth like god. she speaks, and the air turns to religion.
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