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.
'You are beautiful like demolition. Just the thought of you draws my knuckles white. I don’t need a god. I have you and your beautiful mouth, your hands holding onto me, the nails leaving unfelt wounds, your hot breath on my neck. The taste of your saliva. The darkness is ours. The nights belong to us. Everything we do is secret. Nothing we do will ever be understood; we will be feared and kept well away from. ..It’s you and me in this room, on this floor. Beyond life, beyond morality. We are gleaming animals painted in moonlit sweat glow. Our eyes turn to jewels and everything we do is an example of spontaneous perfection. I have been waiting all my life to be with you. My heart slams against my ribs when I think of the slaughtered nights I spent all over the world waiting to feel your touch. The time I annihilated while I waited like a man doing a life sentence. Now you’re here and everything we touch explodes, bursts into bloom or burns to ash. History atomizes and negates itself with our every shared breath. I need you like life needs life. I want you bad like a natural disaster. You are all I see. You are the only one I want to know.” - Henry Rollins
(via ramonaray)
First love is scary because it’s like “holy crap, why is this person the first thing I think of in the morning, why am I disappointed when I don’t dream of them? Why is the desire to be with them so much stronger than hunger and thirst and exhaustion? Why does their name look so pretty written down? Why do I feel like I just fell out of a 30 story building when they look at me, and why do I like it?” And you become so comfortable with them that when they leave, your body doesn’t know how to react because they were as common to you as breathing, and now you’re missing a vital part of yourself. You forget that you were someone before them. You think “I was so empty until I met them.” No, you were full. And when you learned about love, you were fuller. Now you’re back to where you were before, and you need to fill yourself with other things. Fall in love with the way sunflowers naturally curve to face the sun, and the way children have no idea about taxes. Fall in love with the fact that you’re here and you’re still able to feel. Fall in love with the idea that you’re still whole, even when it’s 3 am and you can’t remember how to breathe because you think they taught you how to do that.
Lessons about Heartbreak from a Hypocrite by Megan M.  (via hefuckin)
The truth is, I can’t be with you like this. I mean, I know I said that I could, but I can’t. I just can’t compromise myself like that. I mean, I’m an emotional person. I feel things and I need to be able to get upset, and talk about how I’m feeling. I mean, that’s just, that’s who I am, and I can’t change it. I don’t want to. And the thing is, you knew that, you knew it, and you still pursued me. Because you want something with me. You just aren’t strong enough to have it. Which in a way makes you a coward. And the saddest part is that, one day you’re going to wake up, and you’re going to realized what you missed and its going to be too late.
Felicity (via wordsthat-speak)
You know what I’m seeing more clearly? I’ve caused my own pain by staying in spaces that didn’t serve me. I’ve literally put myself in a position to experience something that could be avoided. Now that I can see what I’ve been doing unconsciously, I’m certain that I no longer want to participate in experiences that bring me pain. My consciousness is rising. That’s a powerful thing to recognize on a conscious level. Because you can either pursue or not pursue pain, but either way you can’t say you didn’t know. You’re conscious. You can see. You can’t unlearn what you can see.

When I first heard he loved you, I knew it was true,
knew that my bruised knees and blue eyes and blurred oceans
were not enough for him. And maybe you were.
I knew it was true that beauty couldn’t buy love,
but I put on more blush. But I hated you. But I laid in bed at night at willed your teeth to rot.
I compared the size of our guts, and our hair, and our luck. But the sun set
and I went down with it.

In the mornings I would wake up uglier,
and you would wake up in his bed. I love to suffer.
I would picture your kisses in my head, make up pet names, wake up dead.
In the mornings you would be at home and he would be happy.

For months, I couldn’t figure out why he didn’t love me.
The calculations were so
ungodly. I’ve seen all the movies. I have short skirts and glitter,
“but he chose her.
He chose her.”
And I’m sorry, but by all rules of science that doesn’t make sense.
I felt your presence in the shower, in my morning coffee,
in the moments of silence to mourn solders and dead men.

Dead bugs circled the drain,
it rained every day for three weeks straight.
I started baking cookies and I tried to change my name.
When he called me, I could hear your heavy breathing in the background.
And I’m sorry.

For months I was so angry. I grew crystals on my kitchen counter
just to crush them. I told my mom that I had a new boyfriend.
I drank to get sick to have an excuse to stay in bed all day Sunday,
and sometimes Monday too. I hated you. I hated him.
I hated my thin fingers and holding my own hands.
For months I played the victim. But you woke up wrapped around him
and I woke up in my own head, a vomit stained bed, a sickness.

I’m sorry.

The truth is,
you are beautiful. And I am beautiful too.
And he wanted you. And that’s fine. I can’t hate you for having what I want to be mine.
I can’t hate him for loving. I can’t blame fate or time.
The truth is that sometimes, love just isn’t right.

And I love him. I love you. I love the way it feels
to apologize. I wake up in the morning,
and paint. The truth is, you deserve him. And I deserve these weeks alone
to work on curbing my envy. To work on waking up happy.

My friends tell me he’s a wild card: to warn you
He’ll Hurt You Too,
and maybe that’s true. But I’m sorry. I don’t wish that for you.

There are rows of dead things in my garden.
I think I’ll replant them.

Letter For The Girl He Loves More Than Me; Hannah Beth Ragland  (via allmymetaphors)
When he says
He doesn’t love you anymore,
Roll your shoulders back
And look him in the eye
Even when it feels like your ribs
Are breaking inward, like spider legs.
When he digs up old aches
That he swore he forgave you for,
And ask him why he didn’t leave you sooner.
Ignore the way the words feel like sandpaper
Running all the way up your throat to your mouth.
When he blames you
For mistakes that wear his face,
Do not scream.
Do not cry.
Tell him that there are boys
Who would be proud to say they’d loved you.
Tell him that in two years
You won’t even remember his name
And don’t let him see the way you can taste your own lie.
When he leaves
Ignore the howling in your blood
And do not get up after him.
Not even to lock the door.
Do not, do not
Do not.
Smell his shirts when you box them up
To give them back.
Not one.
Swear off dating when you realize
You’re chasing ghosts that wear his smile.
It’s okay to cry over him.
It’s even okay to forgive him.
But do not go back to him.
If he did not know how to love you the first time,
He won’t know how to do it the next.
How To Pretend It Doesn’t Hurt, by Ashe Vernon (via latenightcornerstore)