Inside the Muse's Purse
Because the voices in my head needed a platform.
Everything natural either dies,
Or survives the motions.
It could be bleeding that I need –
so that I can see the life within,
And that time heals the wounds,
but the scars remain,
I believed in my dream and in myself.
For the most part, whenever I was in that creative zone, in my element, I ceased being just the weird girl in the corner and I morphed into something more, something weirder – a goddess.
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Writing about sex and getting paid to do it
Where the lines of fantasy and reality blur…
Purely curvy & delightfully voluptuous
Conjured by Sarah Doughty
Musings of an alcoholic writer