“Anything that can’t be done in bed isn’t worth doing at all.”

I remember really vividly kneeling by my bed as a nine-year-old, saying my prayers and asking God to give me boobs that were so big that if I laid on my back I wouldn’t be able to see my feet.

Don’t go to bed with any woman crazier than you are.

I can’t wrap my head around the fact that I have to convince half the world’s population that my body is not their bed.

My flowers rot beneath my bed. I was too selfish to part with them. I hope their deaths don’t bring hexes. Did I say flowers? I meant my exes.

The monsters are no longer under our beds.

I learned to play with the monsters under my bed. I gave angel wings to the demons in my head. I asked the voices in my mind to sing sweet lullabies and finally, I found the love and fire in my own eyes.

My arms spread like wings to your side of the bed, as I close my eyes. The sound of the rain, like music to my ears, my body sinks deep into my sheets. As I fall asleep with my heart in peace.

First of all, I love singing. I mean, I get out of bed and I sing. I can’t help it.