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The poets can say whatever they damned like. A woman’s worth is not decided by what’s between her legs but by what is in her mind.
“Have you ever been in love?” “No,” he says. “Not ever. What’s it like?” “Horrible.”
Waiting. Not waiting. One lover. A hundred lovers. There should be no judgment either way. A woman is not defined by what she does or doesn’t do in the bedroom.
