These femmes are my best selves. Not because they are perfect, but because they are raw, real, and purely honest.
They speak loud. They shout, I could say. They cry rivers and then hug each other. They share their deepest secrets at night, when they never sleep. In the morning, they make a special breakfast and talk about everything and nothing, and laugh. They never wear clothes. They wear skies and galaxies instead, and they dream a lot. They travel into the future, do bratty things there, change it a little, and then come back laughing like children. And on the deepest nights, they walk the streets, invisible against the walls, scaring the people who dare to cross their path.

How immature are they? Well, let them be.
You will never know what they’ve been through when they were just human.