EN | FR
I am 19.
I write because silence costs me too much.
I write desire before it has to justify itself.
Longing when it becomes indecent.
The blurred zones where we know exactly what we are doing,
yet pretend not to see.
I write the encounters that shift something,
those that leave a mark,
those we don’t always dare to own.
What I write is not meant to reassure.
Nor to please.
Even less to be wise.
I write what I would never show otherwise.
What throbs, hesitates, and slips away.
What burns softly, for a long time.
Sometimes I resist.
Often, I give in.
Without caution.
Without apology.
Because this is where I lose myself,
and where I recognize myself.
Some texts are tender.
Others disturb.
None of them is innocent.
— Ophelie Deslys —
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