I stopped shaving my legs every other day
I stopped only eating citras and drinking a gallon of water a day
I started smoking weed with my friends
I stopped bringing my phone with me to Temple, to coffee houses, to record stores, to concerts
I stopped ignoring my family and started baking cookies and pancakes with bananas and nuts and apples
I’ve made 32 pancakes since Friday,
I’ve burnt 13 but I’m getting there
I won’t let you burn me anymore I’m so fucking sick of flames
Turns out I don’t get off on pain
I don’t get off on being treated like a toy
I do not enjoy having a collection of sticky notes covered in conversation topics because you never held up your end
It’s true that one person always loves more but the other side needs to give something
You knew this would happen I have to go for my own self respect
I should’ve known when you stopped sending good morning texts
Or when your texts didn’t come at all until
late at night
When your words were always about sex
Maybe I should have turned my phone off or blocked your number when you told me about the first girl
Or the second or the third
But I thought you were worth it that I’d never find a better guy
You always listened you respected my boundaries
It’s probably easy when you have six other girls who will give you what I protect
I’m not picking up this time
I’m not checking your timeline I’m not listening to your music
I’m not dying my hair your favorite color or getting a tattoo
You don’t deserve my kind of love
Not from me,
You deserve a quiet love that won’t take up too much time
You killed me over and over again
You wasted and
disrespected me without even noticing
My heart has been replaced with beetles and old peach pits but soon
You won’t live there anymore to poison my wood
Flowers will bloom in my brain once again
Watered by my own love and confidence
Planted by me for me
You will never see them
Lilacs and roses were my favorite before you
Fuck your daisies you’re the one who cut them down
—  I Always Grow Back

“I love you, but you just make me so sad.” She whispered quietly enough to not wake him.

“And I so badly want to go back to the way things were, but every time I look at you now I feel little edges of my heart cracking apart.”

She kisses his chest with the next words, “I love you, but I have to love myself now.”

I am not a rebound.
I am not your second choice.
I will not give you the constellations inside my heart if all you give me is space.
I will not give you the oceans of my mind if all you do is sit back and watch me drown.
I will not break all ten fingers if all you do for me is not lift one.
I may not know a lot about who I am,
but I know now who I am not.
Don’t date an overthinker.
She’ll spend days analyzing your facial expressions when you speak, and nights deciphering what the period placement in your text message meant. She’ll agonize for hours over why you didn’t say hello to her at breakfast, and start to create unrealistic scenarios in her head that you decided you no longer liked her. Don’t date her, because otherwise she’ll suffocate you with her care. She’ll always ask you if you’re okay, and constantly say that she loves you just to hear you say it back to her. And she’ll cry, oh lord will she cry. She’ll cry over the way you looked at that girl, or the way your eyes stopped lighting up at her name. She’ll cry when you start kissing her like it’s your job, and touching her like it’s a habit. She’ll even overthink the fact that maybe she’s just overthinking. That you do still love her, that all these worries might actually just be in her head. And so when you do leave, she’ll still wake up nights six months from now replaying the memories over in her head like a jukebox thinking “Where did I go wrong?” or “What did I do this time?”.
Do not date an overthinker unless you plan on marrying her.
—  Excerpt of a book I’ll never write #59
Friends with Benefits


We touch each other casually;
a poke in the stomach,
a jab in the side.
I slap your ass when no one is watching
and you look me up and down in
my tube top and mini-skirt like I am
a medium-rare slab of meat.

When we lie on your bed,
you grab my hips when I teeter too
close to the edge;
I hold your hand when I am scared
or cold,
and I lean against your shoulder
when I am lonely, which is more
often than not.

These exchanges are not hidden,
just quiet.
Two flirts existing in the same bubble,
our grins are not war-cries,
merely comfort.
They are public, yet the world does
not seem to care.
They do not care, because
neither do we.

I am ashamed to admit
I am in love with these moments.
Casual lingers and air-blown kisses–
they keep me saner than
you know.
I am in love with what we are,
as long as I do not think
of what we are not.