read this if you're h*rny and ashamed

she only showers with her panties on.

Inside me, something seethes. Inside me, some feral animal claws at my ribcage, trapped. - Molly McCully Brown.

Dear Reader,

Let’s talk about sex. What it does to you. It rots your lips. Splits you from pussy to hair. You will catch a disease. When you think about it, it’s fun being scared of your own body. You should be wary.

Being clean is better than being free. Or happy. Or sexy. Or connected to your soul in all the ways you should be.

Unless you’re married. And then its fine. Sex and all its thorns are something to be proud of. Shh, don’t cry. You’re Jesus. Well, you should feel like Jesus. But you’re only the grass he bled on.

You’re not winning a prize for being good.

And once, a girl that used to live in my house, said she only showers with her panties on. Because there is a Jinn in the bathroom that enters young girls and does God knows what.

And I didn’t know how to tell her – you’re the Jinn and the prey they’re protecting it from.

God forbid a finger wanders down your folds. And God forbids it tickles. And God forbid you like it. and God forbid you turn into one of those Girls lining the streets.

Dogs with flees, dining on rats with rage and glee.

And you’re not like them. So, you read smut in secret. And lie about reading smut in secret. And you have no idea what to do with all this body given. And you startle when your hips cork. And deny what you’re made of.

You’re not winning a prize for being good.

I think you’ve misunderstood. You’re missing an arm, a leg, half a brain.

Because you should be horny. But never ashamed. And you are a world to explore, never a cave. And it’s not even about the boys at the end of the day. You bake the cake, but you never have a slice. And you might have been praised, but you’re not winning a prize.

So, don’t be good.

I mean—Don’t be bad (please be bad!).

But if you’re nothing but good, then really, you’re nothing —nothing— but good.