I hate that feeling you get in your stomach when you see him. No, not butterflies. I’m talking about that need for dick so much it actually hurts in your stomach
in the most innocent way possible:
taking off your shoes in my bedroom,
climbing under the sheets and watching
whatever’s in my Netflix queue,
barely even touching
as we talk about our days until we
fall asleep with our
clothes still on.
But another, hungrier part of me
wants you unbuttoning your shirt
before you’re completely through my door,
falling onto my bed,
scrambling to make your fingers
unbutton my shirt faster,
while your mouth shakes out
my name the entire time.
|—||Safe To Say A Lot’s Going Through My Head When I Think About You | Lora Mathis (via lora-mathis)|
DO YOU EVER WANT TO BE IN A RELATIONSHIP BUT AT THE SAME TIME YOU’RE SCARED OF BEING IN A RELATIONSHIP
This is an itinerary of the easy parts of me to love:
Two hands: open, small, soft. Only a writing callus as a mark of imperfection. Still kids’ hands, somehow, unused for anything but picking scabs. Dirt under the fingernails, but it’s easy to ignore. Scars on the knuckles, but we don’t talk about it.
Two shoulders: (skip the arms, they’re war zones, all broken, all bloody, too mangled and full of bullet wounds — Focus: shoulders.) Each rounded, slim, perfect under your mouth.
Two clavicles, leading to a dip at the base of one column of a neck. You will lay your palm here and pretend not to choke me. I will pretend I can breathe. The best thing about bruises is that they heal.
Skip my face, there is no easy part there, all of this too-tortured and barely-masked — you’d rather talk about the hair, long enough to pull. You’d rather talk about the way we both like it better with my eyes closed.
Skip again, like a scratched vinyl record, but you can’t find anywhere new that you can swallow. Spine too bent, ribs too closed, hips too jagged. Knees broken from so long on the floor, feet weary and blistered. Can’t seem to stomach the shin splints, the stretch marks, the scars. Can’t seem to swallow the fact that I am a hard thing to love, that none of this was easy. I spent my life on the battlefield, baby, and you waltzed in out of nowhere with your eyes so blue — you thought you knew me. But I am a soldier, and when you learn about the blood, it’ll make your bones ache with the weight of it.
All of this, one long love letter about the way you leave me.
All of this white noise; screaming; static; silence.
"I don’t think people love me. They love versions of me I have spun for them, versions of me they have construed in their minds. The easy versions of me, the easy parts of me to love." - anonymous(via backshelfpoet)
|—||Stephen King, “Joyland” (via bl-ossomed)|