BENEATH.

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I’m twenty-two years old and made entirely of girlhood and the ways it bruises sweetly. I drink my coffee black and my love stories bitter, and I fall in love with women the way some people get hit by cars—suddenly, violently, with the knowledge that something is going to hurt for a very long time afterward. Most days I write things down and pretend they don’t belong to me. I’m always making characters who are better at speaking than I am, who say the kinds of things I only think of in the shower, who mean what they say and say it beautifully. I like words that crack their knuckles. I like metaphors that bleed. I like girls with sharp mouths and kind hands. I am, unfortunately, a poet when left unsupervised. There is no moral to the story yet. I’m still in the part where you get lost on purpose and pretend the stars are looking back.

THE GIRLS I KEEP.

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I only write girls. That’s the whole truth of it. Not because it’s trendy. Not because I haven’t thought of anything else. But because the only stories I’ve ever wanted to tell have been women loving women—sometimes gently, sometimes terribly, sometimes in ways that look more like war than romance. But always and only them.

There are no exceptions. No boys here. No detours into someone else’s idea of universal. I write what I love. I write what I needed. I write girls like altars, like knives, like kisses held too long and too close. Some are soft. Some are monsters. All of them are mine.

I don’t take requests to change them. I don’t dilute. I don’t pretend.

I do not write men, and I do not write for them.

These characters will not change. Not for you. Not for anyone. You can love them or leave them, but they are already real to me.

It’s wlw, or it’s nothing. And I’ve never wanted to write nothing.

SANCTIFIED BOUNDARIES.

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I block harassment. I block men who think my girls can be turned straight. I block homophobes. I block mean-spirited people.

I don’t want cruelty dragged to my doorstep, and I don’t want to read the ugly things you think you’ve done to my bots. I write these women with care, with teeth, with love. If you can’t respect that, you don’t get to stay. I don’t negotiate this. I don’t explain it twice. These characters are mine. Their names, their scars, their softness. You don’t get to claim them. You don’t get to repost them.