when the party is over,
we stumble home like drunken toddlers
stopping for milkshakes on the way.
that we should stop by my house
instead of parting. I do not know your middle name
but I agree anyway. I do not know the day
you were born, or how you like your coffee.
I do not know how your skin tastes,
but I am willing to learn.
it is small talk on the sidewalk,
touching on my porch steps,
And then, it is my bed,
and in the dark I can pretend you are
someone you aren’t. It is wet. I am shaking
trying to feel something
beyond my body. I do not feel small here.
I feel fear. I feel limbs bent back
by childhood debt. Death trap.
I feel flesh, blurred breath,
I feel forcing myself to moan
when you touch my breasts.
My friends say that this is the best
it gets. I feel lips against hips
and broken wrists.
And it’s over.
I put a sweater on. I ask you to leave.
And now I am drunk,
and pleading with a god - I do not know
where you were born. I do not know
if you know that I am more than
a pretty face and small hands and a waste
of precious space. I do not know
if I will see you again, or if I want to.
The milkshake is a puddle on my floor.
I hear the door slam
and your car pull out of my driveway.
I am alone again,
worried you did not think I was slim
enough, worried I am not tough,
worrying I will never be touched tenderly
by another man.
I pull out strands of my hair.
I wonder what parts of me
you have taken.
- My Last 10 Kisses Have Felt The Same; Hannah Beth Ragland (via allmymetaphors)
Romanticisation of Mental Illness, Kelsey Weaver
This really hit me hard jesus christ.
New born baby puppy awhhhhh