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@babyalwaysbmine-blog

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windysharpe
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windysharpe
1. you see her car pull in your driveway. roll back your shoulders. tuck your hair behind your ear. take a deep breath. smile. prepare for war. 2. you go to the beach and she tries in vain to teach you how to skip rocks. you sit in the sand and talk for an hour about how great it would be to be mermaids. you imagine yourself in a house made of stone with her, tails brushing against the ocean floor. she tells you about how great it would be to lure men to their deaths, a wicked laugh on her tongue, and just for a moment, you hope. you wonder if anyone else could talk with her this way. you wonder if he could talk with her this way. 3. she tells you about him every day now. how he talks, the way he laughs, neck exposed, a long line of taut muscle you will never have. let her talk. nod in all the right places. she says she’s going to find you a boy for junior prom. tell her that’s really not going to be a problem. she laughs and rolls her eyes. you wish you could bottle that moment and keep it in a locked drawer where no boy or man could ever find it. 4. be glad you have time on the bus ride home to be by yourself. avoid her snapchats when you get home. turn the damn phone off. throw it across the room. you will go to hug your pillow but it smells like her shampoo. throw that too. hate every ounce of your life that is saturated with her. 5. she holds his hand every day now. it used to only be when they were at the movies, dark places where only the monsters could see. but he takes her out in the light now. their linked fingers look like a leash to you. swallow your vomit and turn down the wrong corridor to make sure you don’t look her in the eye. never tell her you did so. 6. she doesn’t come around as much anymore. the pillow on the left side of your bed has stopped smelling like her shampoo. you wonder which hurts more, being around her or being without her. you don’t have to lie as much this way. only to the mirror. only to your hands. 7. when she invites you to the mall with her, go. it’s the only time you’ve had with only her in weeks. when she invites you in the dressing room to see if a dress looks good on her, go. it will hurt. it will sting. seeing her beautiful body that you have no right to touch will set your hands on fire. do it anyway. get used to the feeling of not being able to get what you want. smother the flames with the dress she pools to the floor, not worried about being in her underwear around you. breathe. let your lungs fill up with smoke. 8. when you come home alone, knowing she’s with him, turn the lights off in your bedroom. the monsters will stare. stare back. they don’t need to say a word; you already say it all to yourself every time you think about her. 9. maybe it’s time to leave her, you think. maybe it’s time to stop all this dying I do. 10. maybe it is. but who will you be without her?

how to pretend to be straight for her, vol. 3, by windy sharpe (via windysharpe)

soulreserve
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soulreserve

Masks

Tell me your secrets, tell me your thoughts; Tell me what made you, what breaks you apart; Tell me these silences, are hard; Tell me of your stories, what tears you inside, what gives you a laugh; The fears that make you want to give up, or the mistakes that hold you, where did you start? Tell me of your childhood, of the lanes you walked; What you bought? And what you sought? Tell me of the wrinkles, those age old scars; The marks that time left, and your theories on stars; Tell me that you lived, tell me that you fought, for what you want; Tell me why these walls, were built, why they circle your heart? Tell me of the lost, loves, if you were hurt, how far?

I want to know, what your poetry masks, at the surface of surfaces, beneath it all, who you really are?

wnq-writers
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wnq-writers
With me disappointment is the best offer, I was raised by it, grew to become it and became experienced in delivering it. I wish I won’t disappoint you but it’s the only thing I can give. I will disappoint you and you will stop loving and I don’t know which would I hate to see more.

Kivanc Ayla, The Fathers of Hell (via wnq-writers)

Source: wnq-writers.com
tristamateer
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tristamateer
I’ve never done this before so bear with me, okay? I can’t get my stubborn fingers to work around the buttons. I’m used to yanking jeans off in the dark but women’s clothes can be so complicated??? Leave it to me to pick the worst fucking time to fumble. Leave it to me to be able to fumble the ball when their aren’t even balls involved. I think about ripping off her blouse with my teeth– how macho how bad porn how unlike me. I am worried that she’s worried. I wonder if her sweat is from the heat or from my mouth or from indecision. She says baby don’t worry so much, and I worry more. The last person to kiss her did it under an umbrella in the fucking rain. How am I supposed to compete with that? And yeah, okay. I know it’s not a competition, but I keep having fever dreams about crossing her finish line. I know the tortoise said to the hare that slow and steady wins the race but she keeps saying faster oh god please don’t stop and I want to tell her that I have never once come in first place. I’m nervous. I wish I wasn’t so fucking nervous. I’m worried I’m gonna blow it and she says baby, calm down, that’s what you’re supposed to do.

“Bare With Me” Trista Mateer (via tristamateer)

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