There was something about the way that the night stretched on,
silky and unending,
unfurling and curving around us,
drawing the space between,
tighter and tighter still.
It was something blood deep, this.
In languages unknown yet achingly familiar,
like catching your reflection in a darkened room.
The sweetness at the back of your throat, now coating your tongue, your fingertips.
This is one page in the story,
it leaves you hungry. Wakes you up.
Diary of a mad brown girl 