Author: Anan Ashraf

Once when I asked a man to describe me, after much thought, persuasion and time he sent me this- "She takes just like a woman, she makes love just like a woman, yes, she does. she aches just like a woman, but she breaks just like a little girl."
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  Rains were warm. Warm like blood; like sex. With a rawness beyond the understanding of the one on the other side of the window. Hands stained with paint, she sat. A pallet of orange, black and brown beside. She stared outside the window and back onto her canvas. Throwing her brush down in frustration,…