they told her, “fear the reaper.”she laughed to herself and muttered, ‘baby, death ain’t nothing’ more than a quick fuck. a little bit of silence after he comes.
if god is real, she put all of herself into this girl. she vowed to unleash a woman so violently herself, the sky would collapse every time she came to orgasm.
holy, holy, holy dawn. my hips rocking into your face. the edge inviting. your name like dry wine on my tongue. your name branded into my inner thigh.
He tilted my chin up and I swear those lips are magic. Witchcraft. Sorcery. Whatever it is in those lips, it’s addictive. Unassailable. I had to have more. More of this feeling of being wanted.
Wrap him up in floral wallpaper, wishing the envelopes I seal were his lips, leaving hickeys like stamps to show where he’s been.
Moving on should be a required high school classbecause Lynchburg is determined to make me forget.
We screamed this primeval scream built on a base of freedom, raised from beauty of a dying breed, and threw our heads back to laugh or cry, I’m not entirely sure which. But the scream shook the golden sunset, bringing it to its knees.
This city is yawning before me, but I’m not tired.
You’re elegance in a misunderstood form. Crystal quartz in a world of platinum. Oh, my dizzy boy, there’s a fire in you that I use to warm my hands on chilly mornings.
We are paint streaked runners,deafened by the cries of all the sad people. It’s a powerful sound that practically yanks the tears right out of you. Sometimes, you just can’t help but feel like a very smallclam ina verybig ocean.
you remind me of someone i knew. looked just like you but kind.
And then it changed. I wasn’t letting him anymore. He was taking, pawing, grabbing. I pushed, I cried out, I squirmed, but like I said it’s a shitty game and he didn’t feel like playing by the rules anymore.
I’m nineteen tree rings and mashed acorns stop up my veins when I can’t clot. Oh god, you beautiful person, I’ll let you lick the salt off of my tattoos as if they were wounds, wounds made of ink and stories.
Is it bad to like the way the scars look on my skin? Oh, the way they feel under my hands. My body’s protecting itself, saying, “No, this barrier of scar tissue is to keep you out.