She left cigarette burns on his eyelids when she looked at him like that.
They call that look “smouldering” in Hollywood.
But this wasn’t Hollywood and she’d just told him she didn’t love him anymore and he stood there and wondered if words had ever melted in the heat before.
The room should change once you fire a shot like that but all her confession did was dissipate into smoke and whispers.
Life was meant be more than dead love and dead ends.
are my nerve endings dead or was this a long time coming - excerpts from the book I’ll never write
to take you out
you to put on
put on that shade
of lipstick that I love
and those heels
that make you
and the men
made you mine
but little do they know
you aren’t mine
you aren’t something
to be had
and I’ll smile
because I’ll know
that for one night
I’ll have the
in my hands
mouth not strawberry like not really more like soft pink a pale rose, too delicate to keep my fingers from brushing against its petals will I dare to get hurt will I risk being rejected by your thorns no move on you I am paralysed under your gaze yet my heart is already pricked & you speak & the sound of your voice has the colour of my blood red stains, but not really more like in my imagination your mouth like something dangerous & I want to scratch my lips against yours so badly.
— mouth like something dangerous // alb (based on @julykings prompt)
the flies smell death on me. so they collect in my room. i fall into the field of flowers until the bees arrive, dripping honey from the hive, dripping honey to make me alive. we all saw this coming, but we could have never stopped it. a gun filled with flowers, a vase overflowing with fired bullets. it’s too late to change it now but i wish we had stopped to look around at the destruction we made. yeah, it was fun, but we burned every bridge, even ones we were never destined to cross. so i’ll wait in the wreckage until all the butterflies collect and whisper that it’s okay, that they can carry the burden off the earth.
Don’t fall in love with a woman who reads, a woman who feels too much, a woman who writes.
Don’t fall in love with an educated, magical, delusional, crazy woman. Don’t fall in love with a woman who thinks, who knows what she knows and also knows how to fly; a woman sure of herself.
Don’t fall in love with a woman who laughs or cries making love, knows how to turn her spirit into flesh; let alone that one who loves poetry (these are the most dangerous) or spends half an hour contemplating a painting and isn’t able to live without music.
Don’t fall in love with a woman who is interested in politics and is rebellious and feels a huge horror from injustice. One who does not like to watch television at all. Or a woman who is beautiful no matter the features of her face or her body.
Don’t fall in love with a woman who is intense, entertaining, lucid and irrelevant. Don’t wish to fall in love with a woman like that. Because when you fall in love with a woman like that, whether she stays with you or not, whether she loves you or not, from a woman like that, you never come back.
You say I am the best you’ve ever had, but neither of us care to admit I am also the best you’ll never be able to keep. I am a furious, windstruck storm of a human being, with passion bordering on madness and romanticism bordering on obsession. My kisses are the only part of myself your lips can fathom, and your hands cannot even touch my body without your fingers staining from all the storms that rage within me.
You seem to love the type of women whose eyes are serene and bright as the summer days they spend with you, who are beautiful and competent in the ways the world is only to happy to accept. They love with lukewarm tenderness and just a hint of arrogance only a life of privilege can bring- they hurt you, perhaps, but never amaze you, and the height of their unpredictability will end in a drunk car ride home that tastes almost as common as the whiskey you drink to forget them. But forgotten they will soon become, and there are many, many, women who will share the shade of their eyes and the nature of their well contained laughs. They will take months from you, tears from you, and sobriety from you temporarily, but never anything deeper. You do not understand the ways, then, in which women like me love. I will take the speck of honey brown from your eyes, the warmth of your skin, and the movement of your hips and hold them closer than you pull me, for I do not know what it means to feel without completion. To love, to feel, to touch without giving all of myself is a foreign concept I have no desire to become acquainted with, and I am sorry, but the only compensation I accept is everything you cannot give in fear it will destroy you. I will love you with all I have to offer, all of my madness and wild hair and sweet laughter and crooked teeth, and while there could be paradise between us, I offer no promises about what we will take from each other. Does that frighten you? It should. The truth is I am as full of destruction as I am affection.
You crave the sensation of me on top of you, but you do not understand me. Do not be fooled by the kindness in my eyes or the softness of my skin- I am a multitude of miraculous tragedies dressed in art. And as much as I want to love you and spread the deepest parts of myself over you like the tides on a coastal shore, I know you cannot love me in the way I demand to be loved. You are too accustomed to the idea of affection with no lasting consequence, and so you cannot possibly have enough to give without leaving me at least partly empty. I am someone full of presence, and any absence you leave will leave me bare.
ap (7.17) I do not know what it means to love with mercy