Secret wish.
Would you think me beautiful standing under the tail-end of a summer downpour, in baggy, low-slung blue jeans and a sports bra, Hanes pulled up above my waistband, hair soaked with strands flying every way, hat askew? I stand with hands on hips and feet well apart, defiant stance and defiant eyes, ink and dirt blurring across pale skin and dried sweat, mud thickly caked on canvas shoes. This is how I wish to be loved.