Questions She Never Asks

  There are places no one touches, yet they ache the loudest. Spaces beneath stillness, folds where breath hesitates, and memories pressed into hips that still hold shape. Inside thighs that steam not from movement but from withheld sensation. Maybe the ache isn’t what we fear. Maybe the ache is how we know we’re still soft. Should I take rose extract to feel more delicate—or more edible? Why do I sip aloe at night, hoping moisture will become memory? How do I prepare for tenderness without needing to ask for it? When I search for balm, is it to soothe—or to invite? What if I glow with ashwagandha not for balance, but because I want to feel wanted? Do I crave moisture because I want to be savored? Is jasmine oil for my skin—or for the memory it plants? Why do I layer silk beneath nothing, as if absence is its own accessory? Is my glow a signal or a secret? Do I jade egg before intimacy as ritual—or readiness? When I reach for balm, is it a sacred act or a private softness? 🜁 Try G...