have you ever been havin lovin with someone and you’re on top and have your hand on their throat and sometimes your thumb on their chin and they just take the end of it into their mouth and bite on it while they look at you….. good GOD
Explore the pieces of you that are destroyed, they aren’t always open to you like they are now.
My mom is playing the sims and she is literally making herself exactly how she is head to toe “no I can’t wear that I’m not skinny enough” with a wedding ring on her sims finger “is that how my nose looks shan” and literally plays the game like her life having her sim just read books and watch tv and plant her garden, i told her to take her girl out clubbing and she said “i dont do that” and I am just baffled because I have never played anything close to my actual life like I’m a little hot princess 5 star chef and illustrious author with cotton candy trees and shit
Do you ever stare at your nose in the mirror and just think ok actually what the fuck is this on my face
I’ve started and restarted and started writing a reply to this message a few times already and no matter what I can’t seem to really answer it. I don’t know. I feel like it’s such a tender topic, that if I said yes people would think I was doing so for attention. Or that I was trying to “act depressed”, but it’s not any of that. I have a few times, nothing very critical. And I would always think about where I would do it, it would always be this long thought out process, but I never got too far. I’d always back out once I started just a little bit. The thought of it is mainly what consumes me for the most part. Actually getting myself to do it is very difficult, which I’m not complaining about.
you know whats sad is someone could never just simply post “i want to have sex” basically a human emotion/feeling/vibe without being called a slut or a whore i hate this world
why are light skinned boys so fucking unfg STOP IT IF I CANT HAVE YOU JUST STOP IT
I’ve considered it. But the word “book” just doesn’t seem to sit well in my chest when I think about it. I could never imagine myself sitting and writing something of that length. My feelings touch ground with the tiniest of things and then leave within a few minutes, I’m fascinated and captured by the most mundane and ordinary situations and items and the love for them sometimes doesn’t last much longer than what it takes for me to rant out about it. If I ever were to compose anything I think it’d be a mess. An organized mess, somehow. You know? It would just be jumbles of writing and somehow it would all make sense. Somehow it would all interlace even though they had nothing to do with one another. I can see myself doing that. In fact I’d really like to. It might be difficult to read, or difficult to relate to because one page could make you feel so much warmth and the next could just give you a literal tear in your chest. But that’s how I am day in and day out, minute in and minute out. My emotions are always traveling places, but I think it’d be interesting for someone to read along with them and watch them and where they’re headed next. I’m happy you feel that way about my words, though. Really I am.
This girl posted a status on Facebook saying something like “it’s funny how much people change within a few years” and I was kind of perplexed because to me a few years is plenty of stretching room for someone to change seeing as one night could serve as enough to make someone a different person by morning
waiting for a book in the mail and finally receiving it is better than every face of love there is
“I want to write poems” I said to you
And you said “about what”
And I thought
about your spoon clinks in the morning
the twitches while you fall asleep
cradling me when your loneliness was exposed
the only time you couldn’t help it
the empty beer bottles on the end table
the stale blankets of the bed
that hotel room
the couch we left ourselves on
the last visit
our last times
you looked at me and you didn’t look away
even when I spoke to you from deep in my throat
aches between my hips
and I should have known that was your way of saying goodbye
without saying anything at all
chapstick glossing over your lips like my tongue fresh against them
when youd raise your voice
I’d leave the room
realizing out in the dark parking lot that I forgot the room key
having to ask you
softly
slowly
again to open the door
and you’d say I can’t do this
and I’d tell you you needed to learn how to feel
how to talk
and you looked at me and you said “about what”
about how you only touched me like a hungry mouth
how you wanted me to swallow you whole
when you only held me between your teeth
how I’d always cry to your mother
and sleep in your empty bed
feeling you more then than when I was with you
when nights and crowds made you uncomfortable
thinking I’d find another you
curl up with a stranger and see in them what I had to wait to see in you
but never did
the guilty fear their own guilt you told me
and I never told you it was you I was afraid of
“I want to write poems” I said to you
And you said “about what”
and I said nothing
when I meant
about how this poem had nothing to do with you
until it started
