Having a cute waiter like I’ll have the chicken with a side of that dick
I tried to replicate her on my skin.
You fucked me
just the way she liked it
the only way you knew how,
and I’d pretend to like the new bruises around my neck.
Sometimes you’d kiss me so hard
I could almost recite the words you last spoke.
If you tasted the salt on my lips,
you’d turn me over
I’d rather choke
on the memory of you
than breathe in the possibility
of someone else’s
I want to read you like a book
and mark up margins with my notes on you,
everything you like
all the things you hate,
especially the things you hate
the way I steam the shower.
I’ll tuck in the corner of my favorite pages
and bookmark passages
filled with your most tender stories
I’ve kissed enough boys
with pretty lips
whose names I can’t remember
to finally realize
I never want to forget yours.
You didn’t break me
It just took me too long to see
I had handed myself over to you
already in pieces
expecting you to mend me.
And I was angry
when you couldn’t find a way
to make the pieces fit.
So forgive me for my words,
I didn’t mean them anyway
like “I don’t care,”
"let me go,"
"I love you."
I’m far too familiar with your specter
to enjoy being alive,
he hovers around me
and whispers in my ear
stories about where it is you’ve been
these days till I’m afraid to move.
I ask him how you’re doing
and still smile when he says ”fine.”
and he knows you are loved
but then I remember you ran
with a vengeance, left me your ghost
and dead men tell no tales.
I want to share secrets during those nights that turn into mornings where I’ll sink into someone’s valleys, tracing the lines on their palms pretending I actually know how to read their life lines. We’ll trade fears in bed and laugh at our demons that somehow don’t seem as big anymore. I’ll tell them all the things I wanted to be when I grew up, like how I wanted to be an astronaut but only so I could float in space.
I want to tell someone about how I got the scar on my thigh or where I got my name. I want someone to know why I have to sleep with my hair always covering my ear, or why I can’t sleep with my back to the door. I want someone to know why I always put my beds in a corner.
I’ll read them the best lines from my favorite pieces of writing, and they’ll know that I really wish I could have met Edgar Allan Poe. I want someone to know what house I’d be sorted into at Hogwarts— then which house I’d choose. They’ll know why I’ve always wanted long hair or what I would do if I woke up to a zombie apocalypse.
They’ll hear the story of my first kiss and how it happened, about my first relationship and how it ended. I want to tell someone how I lost my virginity and whether or not I regret it. I’ll tell them what it felt like to first hold someone’s hand.
I’ll bring up hazy memories, like the time some little girl stole my gold necklace in a McDonald’s ball pit or how I learned to ride a bike. I want to tell someone my favorite Jupiter moon.
Because those are the moments you fall in love with someone, I think. Not through presents or expensive dates. Not even when you’re meeting their family or being introduced to their friends. It’s those moments in between when you learn about the small threads that make a person who they are and what will unravel them. It’s those times you spend tangled in a mess of sheets sinking into each other’s depths finding the best way to fill each other’s negative space.
I’ll tell you when I find it but I think that how it’s done x L.G. (via 17erised)
i fkn love u
lmao you little shit xx
We've been mutual friends for a long, long time. And I've always wanted to kiss you.
I don’t like kissing
Kristen Harootunian (cumfurt)