Wooden spoon. You stir up my insides like the ingredients of a soup with high ambitions for the effect it has on its taster.
Liberator. You transform the existing idea of self-suppression into an aspect of my history.
Law-breaker. You reach into my heart and switch things around in a way that should be illegal.
Part-fitter. You put a machine inside me that sets my blood pounding around my body and causes my fingers to tremble.
Sigh-producer. As you walk past, I “take in and let out a deep audible breath”...