stuff*

He says that he likes me because I have a pretty mouth, and sometimes he makes me feel like I have a pretty mouth
because he kisses me like he’s never known anything better.
and I think I’m supposed to be happy,
but my tummy still hangs heavy on my body and my thighs still look huge next to his.
And I wonder if he finds my flabby upper arms pretty,
or my bulging cheeks and my wide forehead pretty.

I know he doesn’t think of me as pretty.
He only ever looks at my eyes when we’re laid together. He only ever touches me where I am hardest.
Where I am most comfortable.
And it still surprises me when he asks me if he’s pretty. I mean, sure, he’s beautiful.
There’s no question about that. It’s clear to see.
But I’ve never paid attention to his looks as a whole. Only ever his collarbones,
only ever his fingers, where he is prettiest.
Never his face, never his whole body.

I don’t think I will ever be comfortable with my whole body. But I have learned how to love my lips the way he loves them,
and I’ve learned how to love my fingers and my nonexistent collarbones the way I love his.
And I remember the times I slipped stars
under my skin, hoping that I glow as bright as they do,
and the day I realized that no light will be
brighter than the one I shine on myself.

—  oscarsins

10.16.17

We all hold on to shit we don’t need
for reasons we can’t fully articulate.
scraps of paper
empty water bottles
shirts with holes
old love letters
and the feeling of this time, last year.
I save my dead pens
my crackled cell phone chargers
my grandmother’s recipes even though I know them by heart.
I’ve got a closet full of saved
old stuff.
What am I saving it from?
Some of it doesn’t mean a thing.

Some of it, though, does.