(Source: n-3-r)

I don’t mind getting naked or seeing you naked.
I don’t mind talking about sex or having sex
or never having sex. I don’t mind my body
or your body with mine. I don’t mind
your sweaty palms, your chapped lips,
your dirty tongue. I don’t mind
your noisy music, your crappy poetry,
your soiled shoes and ugly handwriting.
I don’t mind 2ams and late night
phone calls, stolen kisses and white lies.
I don’t mind your half-eaten donut,
frozen teabags and sticky hair.
I want your toothbrush’s head
leaning towards mine. I want
your 4am back massage.
Cup my breasts and don’t say
they’re small. I already know that.
Kiss me once and kiss me more.
Pretend what we’re doing is illegal.
It’s always good to be caught
with our mouths tied together
like handcuffs. Dry your cheeks
and make me bleed.
Crave me.
Crave me.
Crave me.

irishjulienne’s, in the name of intimacy (via talkingoutsoft)

This is perfect. Awh.

(via amburrmeow)

(via anchored-melodies)

I’m a divergent
plate boundary, pulling your
skin and bones apart.

Kayla Hollatz, I’m Sorry for Geology. [a haiku] (via thetalltwig)

(Source: exactic, via dicksprinkles)

inkskinned:

“I get anxious about having anxiety attacks in public.”

inkskinned:

I get anxious about having anxiety attacks in public.”

inkskinned:

“Everyone sees this perfect girl… I look in the mirror and I see someone else entirely…”

inkskinned:

Everyone sees this perfect girl… I look in the mirror and I see someone else entirely…”

I am riding in the passenger seat, listening to my mother talk about the ways love has failed her. She has been called “wife” by four men, “girlfriend” by eight names she has slipped into conversation, “lover” by strangers I will never meet. When I curiously ask, “Why stay married if you’re unhappy?”, she goes stiff. ‘You don’t understand,’ she says defensively. ‘You’re just a kid.’
I am seventeen the first time a boy mentions marriage to me. We are giddy from the idea of gaining light by revealing our dark to each other. We have no idea that one day, when we are sharing a bed, we will look forward to getting away from each other in sleep.

At nineteen, I am doodling in the margins of my college notebook, when my teacher says, ‘Second marriages have a 67% chance of ending in divorce. Third marriages have a 73% chance. And if you’re on your fourth, well, really, what are you doing?’ I think of my mother in her fourth unhappy marriage. I think of my father in his fifth. I wonder if picking myself up and trying again is in my genes.

I do not pick myself up and try again when I learn that I am not going to marry the first person I loved. I pack my tiny world into two suitcases while he is at work and leave the photos of us to die on his wall. I write lots of shitty poetry and tell my ghosts to ‘keep quiet’ when I think nobody is listening. The next time a boy knocks on my chest and asks, ‘How deep do you go?’ I do not show him. I say, ‘Infinitely’ and leave when he complains about the spaces in me he will not be able to fill up.

My ninety-year old grandma, with her silver hips and bullet-wound lips, tells me, in a thick accent, that ‘Nice girls should be married.’ For years, I watched her treat love as the greatest task on her ‘to-do list,’ always cooking and cleaning to keep the relationship alive. But I am too weak, too selfish, too young to carry the weight of love. And I am trying to first settle the disorder in my head before I think about sharing my bed.

Forever Is Too Large To Promise | Lora Mathis  (via lora-mathis)

(via unitedhobosofamerica)

inkskinned:

my-littlesanctuary:

inkskinned  kindly wrote this for me based on my blog, and I kinda fell in love.. thank you so much.

in the middle of the nightshe swallows stars like candlelightand feels them burn through her fingertipsfeels them burn through her skinthinks maybe the reason she feels so empty is because everything she touchesis stained with soot and gritand emptinessdoesn’t realize everyone else is staring because she’slit from withinfigures they all hate her figuresshe’s a sindoesn’t realize people are dying just to be let in.

inkskinned:

my-littlesanctuary:

inkskinned  kindly wrote this for me based on my blog, and I kinda fell in love.. thank you so much.

in the middle of the night
she swallows stars like candlelight
and feels them burn through her fingertips
feels them burn through her skin
thinks maybe the reason she feels so empty is
because everything she touches
is stained with soot 
and grit
and emptiness

doesn’t realize everyone else is staring because she’s
lit from within
figures they all hate her figures
she’s a sin

doesn’t realize people are dying 
just to be let in.

i chew the words “i’m fine” until they taste of
raw mercury, i eat drugs and see orange flashes
morph into your tongue, when at gas stations i
buy white lighters, the sky cracks like eggs and
black confetti falls, i watch girls with electric
lipstick praying a name that will burn of acid rain,

i used to write metaphors about your blue veins,
the universe is expanding and my hands won’t
stop shaking, my eyes are bleeding, my tongue
feels heavy, my skin hangs on naked bones in
the dead night of winter, i am covered in fur in
the scorching heat of July, i have scars carved
into my soul, i swim in the ocean until i feel the
salt screaming sour against my liver, i have rose
lungs, gray bones, mint eyes, red wrists, no heart;

my body keeps growing iron in the cracks of my
stomach, I have aluminum rippling across the
curve of my spine, green lead sits between the gap
of my shoulder blades, I have been God all along

confessions from my alcoholic mother  (via irynka)

(via j0hhnn)

I.
i keep seeing you in my dreams
kissing countless faceless girls
none of them are me

II.
i walk slowly every morning
to give you time to catch up
i’m always too far ahead
of you, too far away from you

III.
i wish you remembered

IV.
we’re both looking out of
the corners of our eyes
all fucking night long

V.
i spent $88.56 for a ticket
to a show i didn’t even want
to see because you asked me
to come with you. (we didn’t
even sit together but we
walked to your house
you invited me in)

VI.
you told me i have
“too much hair” and
i spent the next day
with my hair tied up even
though i was home alone

VII.
my bite is worse than
my bark and i will
set you on fire
just wait and see

VIII.
i wrote this poem
at 1am on a sunday
walking home alone
i thought you’d wait

things i never plan to tell you (let’s drink and get raw), k.w (via writing-away)

(via unitedhobosofamerica)