she will fall in love with me, only because I cannot fall in love with her. she will fall in love with the way I don’t care, and the way I don’t ever call her back like I say I will. she will fall in love with me, because I will kiss her at 3 am, but walk by her at school like I never remembered her last name. I probably didn’t anyways. she will fall in love with me because of the electric jolt she feels in her veins when I am inside of her. she will talk about me to her friends, tell them that I’m the most interesting person that she has ever come across. her eyes will turn green with envy when her best friend gets my number, and she will go insane when she shows up and sees her best friend lying beside me in the spot she once filled. she will scream at me that I was in her veins, and that she never wanted to figure out my tragedies. she will go home and swallow eight glasses of wine trying to forget me, but find her fingers between her own thighs trying to imagine them as my own. she will cry when she thinks of my eyes and the way they looked when I told her that I loved her. she will feel her pride deteriorating whilst her hands come across a mind of their own, and they’ve dialed my number for the seventh time that night. she will tell her friends that she’s over me the next day, and that I am the scum of the earth. she will tell them I wasn’t that good in bed anyways, and she never liked the way I tasted like cigarettes. but I will knock on her window at 4 am and her stomach will twist in knots while she turns the locks and pulls me into her. she will moan and she will cry, she will scream that the pain I put forth is inevitable. she will whisper to me that I am inside of her body like a disease. she will be intoxicated by me, and when she falls asleep on my chest I will pick her broken bones from my tired body and sneak out of her window like a thief, but I will tell myself that nothing that I took from her was stolen. she will wake up on a cloud of pillows, feeling like a heroin addict that hadn’t used in a week. one that had just injected herself and felt her favorite type of destructiveness. I will screen her calls for weeks and delete her voicemails, without even knowing what they consist of. I will unwillingly imagine her silky voice coming through my receiver, unseen tears obvious in her voice. she will tell her friends that she can’t take it anymore, she will tell them that she’s willing to do anything to obtain a love that I never had to give in the first place. her friends will pat her on the back and tell her that if I didn’t love her I wouldn’t come to her window when my breath tasted like liquor and cigarettes. she will cry harder, but form a new bubble of hope in her soul, thinking of the fact that you’re most honest with yourself when your intoxicated. I will feel sorry for her that she ever thought that I was like every one else, I will feel bad because I just wanted to fuck her until my bones didn’t feel so rickety, so my limbs wouldn’t be so weak. I fucked her to get a temporary strength from her pain. she will give up calling after a few months. I will have realized that I let myself get into deep. she will go out with different faces every night trying to memorize their touch and hoping to wash mine off of every inch of her skin. she will wonder if I left my fingerprints on every part of her so I would never forget her. she will try to find me at parties in the 28 year old guy that smoked blend 27s, as I did. she will lay in beer stained sheets next to him but end up telling him about my lips, as if he couldn’t taste them on her already. she will put her shirt on and drive to my house screaming and bang on my door at 3 am, drunk and high, I will run outside and hold her in my arms hoping to get every ounce of pain so she didn’t have to feel me in her veins anymore. she will try to come sleep in my bed and I will tell her I have to get up early, and promise to call her tomorrow. I will make my way to my sheets and kiss the pretty girl in my biology class and forget about her broken soul whilst my hand slides in between her legs. she will fall in love with me because she knows I can’t love. she will fall in love with me, and never be the same. because, she fell in love with a God damn tragedy.
—  teenagge-wastelandd.tumblr.com

Regina Harris
I just wanted to apologize to you
because I’m sorry for starving you sometimes,
other times I’m sorry for over feeding you
and I’m sorry for sticking my fingers down your throat
to make you skinnier
and I’m sorry I made you stand in the scalding
hot shower to try to wash away your stretch marks
because I thought they were ugly
I’m sorry for cutting open your skin to
try to gather some kind of meaning, to retrieve answers
that never came from your tired veins
I’m sorry that i remained quiet whilst you begged me to
talk the the pretty girl in your biology class
or for inhaling cigarettes when they hurt your throat
I’m sorry that I let that dark haired girl
with the pretty veins
break you into a million little tiny pieces
that you’ll probably never get around to collecting
I’m sorry I starved your brain of words that consisted
of I love you
and you’re beautiful
but flourished it with I hate yous and
you’re disgusting
I’m sorry I won’t ever be able
to undo the things that I have done
I am so sorry your lovely soul was destined to such disgusting skin
—  an apology to myself for things I cannot change - teenagge-wastelandd.tumblr.com

Regina Harris
for gods sake don’t ever fall in love with a writer
she will turn your eyes into oceans with just a little stroke of her pen
she will trace your veins with her fingertips,
and inject ink inside all of your pores
and when she realizes you’re not concealing her sadness anymore
you will be left with a billion words inside of your body
that usually just make your head hurt
she will turn your veins into rivers, and your skin and bones
into the solar system
she will tell you that your stretch marks are just small galaxies
and you’re lucky because they decided to use your skin for a place to exist
she will look at you for hours
and your cheeks will turn rosy, and she’ll run for her notepad and her pen,
and leave you wondering what book she could’ve gotten out of your embarrassment
she will begin writing stories on your thighs,
turn your entire existence into paper
she will tell you that you’re her favorite inspiration
and you’ll give her a sheepish grin, and wonder if you are her only
you will catch her staring at the moon every night
and you’ll wonder what she gets out of this
but she’ll tell you she can’t reveal secrets,
and you’ll see now how she compared you to the ocean
because she was the waves
and she told you that you moved her in ways that she couldn’t explain
and she’s going to grow bored,
because already written on every square inch of your pale skin
and your rickety bones,
and she’s going to leave you with nothing but a papery feel
and the taste of black ink in your mouth,
but mostly the strong desire to know who she’s going to write a novel on next
—  don’t fall in love with a writer - teenagge-wastelandd.tumblr.com

Regina Harris
It didn’t mean much, to anyone else, but we were both thirteen and I thought that she was the prettiest blue eyed girl I’d ever seen. So we fell together for a few months and I still remember those beautiful days like it was yesterday, almost wishing it was. I think I could go through all the pain again, just to go through the utter perfection at the start. And she was immature, I was a writer and I dreamed of falling in love, so I did. I was wary at the beginning, because I was mature for a thirteen year old girl. I kept at a distance, but she opened up my veins and entered my body like a tsunami. And that was that, I had to have her for the rest of my life. She called me every night and we would have the cheesiest conversations, (no, I love you more than, more than most), and our first kiss was from a scene in a movie. God damn she was so beautiful back then. But then tragedy enveloped me when she unattached herself from me, and the only thing that ever ran through my mind was I had to have her, God please, I had to have her. My life was full of ‘we will be together Somedays,” or “three more years, just three more years,” and that was all I needed, cause I was fourteen and I believed in dreams. I believed every thing that came from her perfect lips. And I followed her around like a puppy dog, while she kissed the pretty boy from her science class, or the auburn haired girl from her childhood. All that really mattered to me, was that she was still kissing me. And these times are so hazy, because I made myself forget about the days she wasn’t mine. But it was galaxies, universes, everything great, and powerful that ran through my veins when I visited her house that day. From then on, we were together. Again. All I had hoped for ever since I stared into her oceans for eyes. God damn she was so beautiful. And we were one person. She would move, and I would move, because nothing was ever right if we weren’t perfectly aligned. It was crazy, God damn, I was crazy. My eyes were green with envy most of the time, and we were always fighting and screaming, but always making love afterwards because we were just so in love. And I think about those times and my heart beats become irregular, because I think that’s the only time I ever felt alive. I prepared myself, because the first time she left my side it was like a tsunami hitting me head on, tragedy that I couldn’t even write about because it could never touch the surface of how terrible it felt. I convinced myself that sooner or later she would leave, just in case she ever did, I would be ready. But it’s so very strange, because I felt more unprepared the second time than the first. Not even figuratively speaking, I was dead on the inside. She put the life inside of me and turned off the unreachable light as she was leaving. And I never stopped trying to move on, cause when I was fifteen it was a lot easier to believe in fate, it was a lot easier to believe they she had to come back to me sooner or later. So I let go as quietly as I could, because I couldn’t follow her around like a puppy dog when she was following another persons every step as I was hers. And I had sex with girls I barely knew, and it felt so terribly wrong that I’d have to take 11 sleeping pills to fall asleep at night. She’d come drift by and kiss my lips every now and then, until it was messing with my emotions, as she said. But what she never understood is that she was my emotions, she is, she is. And I met another girl, and she spread across my life like a wildfire, so I forgot about my blue eyed forever for a little while, until I remember that I had never forgotten at all. And I remembered we would always be unfinished, and God I hated her for that.
—  the story of my first love - teenagge-wastelandd.tumblr.com
You’re going to meet a girl, and she’s not going to wear band t-shirts and khakis like I did. But don’t let that throw you off because I’m probably the only one that really wears a Beatles t shirt and worn khakis around here. She’s going to find your humor really odd, especially when you use the slang that we always did, but she will get used to it and sooner or later she will start saying our words too. It will almost be like you’re talking to me. She’s not going to turn the radio when your favorite song comes on, she will probably sing along with you when that stupid country bullshit comes on that I always hated. You’re going to think that you should be happy about this, but secretly feel like it’s not right, that you’d rather listen to my oldies, or Citizen, or whatever that band was that always talked about killing themselves off. You’re going to regret yelling at me every time I changed the station, but baby, this is good. She wants to make you happy, but I was too blunt to put your happiness before my distaste. I’m not really sorry for that. She’s going to buy you rings, teddy bears, she will take you to get your nails done, and take you to that expensive restaurant with her shirt tucked in, and her shoes shiny. You’re going to smile and kiss her face, but you’re going to distinctly remember the time that I showed up at your window, words slurring, with flowers I picked from God knows where, wearing my beat up converse, and how I picked you a star out of the sky and told you that is was yours. But sweetie, I wasn’t normal, and you’re just so used to my ways. Go to dinner with her and stop thinking about me because I was never good for you anyways. You’re going to wake up with sweet good morning messages, that make your cheeks turn rosy. But you’re going to feel smothered, because you used to sleep beside me and wake up with my hands between your thighs, feeling for crevices that I’d memorized so clearly. You’re going to not text her back for hours and pretend like you’re sleeping when really you’re wishing I was there to wake you up in our way again. But please don’t do this to yourself, call her and tell her to come over, and stop thinking about me so much. She’s going to kiss you one night and it’s going to feel forced, ‘cause her lips don’t feel like mine and she tastes like mint gum. But you’ll be wondering the whole time how you ever hated the way I always tasted like cigarettes, you’ll wish you had my tongue in your mouth instead of hers. She’s going to smoke the same kind of cigarettes as you, those nasty God damned menthols. And she’ll mention what a coincidence it is, and set her pack next to yours. You’ll hold back tears because you wish so badly that you were looking down at my marlboro blend 27s, cowboy killers; as you used to call them, sitting next to yours. But, sweet angel, they’re just cigarettes, quit trying to find new ways to miss me. She’s going to take you to look at the stars one night, and the moons going to have a twinge of red to it. And she’ll be startled when you burst into tears, where all you can sputter out is that you’ve got to see if I’m okay. But I’m okay, some other girl is telling me that the moon looks fine, and we aren’t going to die tonight. Sooner or later she’s going to try to fuck you; and babe I know her touch doesn’t feel anything like mine. I know she thinks the things that we did were weird, maybe even crazy. But you’ve got to get into her habits now, you’ve got to learn her ways. Please don’t cry when her hand slides between your thighs, because I promise you I’m not crying as mine does the same, only to another girl, that won’t ever mean a god damned thing to me as you did. She’s going to call you every single night at 9 on the dot. And sometimes you’re not going to answer, because fuck she’s so predictable. And you’re going to miss me calling- or not calling -you every night or every morning; whenever my limbs got lonely or my head was full of thoughts. She’s going to ask you regular questions while you answer, wishing you could just be quiet and listen to me ramble about my theories, or whatever the hell was going through my head. I guess what I’m saying is that Im not good for you, so move on and untangle your veins from mine. I guess what I’m saying is come back, and tangle your veins with mine some more.
—  teenagge-wastelandd.tumblr.com
You’re going to call me cute, and I’m going to smile because I haven’t heard something so innocent in a while. You’re going to call me every night before I rest my eyes, and you’re going to ask me millions of questions because you find me slightly mysterious. I’ll answer most of them reluctantly, some I’ll stay quiet indicating to you that you shouldn’t ask again. You’re going to find me interesting. You’re going to look at me with hearts in your eyes and I’ll return them with a sheepish grin. You’re going to melt into a puddle when I trade the late night calls for knocks on your window at 3 am, because I’m lonely, or maybe a little fucked up. Or both. You’ll let me in and you’ll grasp the sheets and I’ll prove to you that girls really do know how to make girls feel good. You’re going to feel like you’re on drugs afterwards, the best kind. You will kiss me all over for hours, but never attempting to touch me in the ways I did you because I wince every time your wandering hands go between my thighs. You’re going to wonder why I do this, but never ask. Because you know I don’t like answering questions. But this will make me far more interesting to you. So you’ll begin to pick me up every morning after I sneak back to my house. You’ll drive me to the prettiest places, and I’ll stare because I’m amazed and wonder exactly why you haven’t taken your eyes off of me. One day you’ll tell me you love me, and I’ll smile a sad smile and I’ll tell you that I love you, and I do. But I’ll silently wish love was enough to make me change my ways. I’ll silently kick myself for collecting another girls soul, when all I meant was to find someone to pass the time with. You’ll hold my hand every chance you get. You’ll soon, be unable to spend one night away from me. And your moms going to be angry when you tell her that you’re in love with a girl, she’s going to say she won’t be a mother to a wild lesbian that puts permanent scratches all over her reputation. You’re going to scream and cry, and thirty minutes later you’ve packed your things and found yourself in my bed screaming, though might I add, for entirely different reasons. You’re going to wonder how, the fuck you got so god damn lucky because you found me. You’re going to picture our whole lives together, but wonder why I mention that I can’t even picture tomorrow. You will think that I’m so confusing, but you’ll smile and kiss me and I’ll smile and ill kiss you back because my lips are cold and yours are so warm. One day you’re going to find me on the phone with the pretty blonde girl from my literature class. You’re going to feel a deep Crimson washing over your eyes, your whole body. You will jump in your car before I can stop you and drive for hours looking for her house while I sit at home and wonder why I ever really try to stop hurting people. I’ll convince myself that the pain I cause is inevitable. And you will come home two hours later with puffy eyes and a scattered brain. You’ll try to slap me but I’m too strong and I hold you in my arms, and we will end up making the sweetest love you could have never even imagined. And you’ll forget about the pretty blonde girl, because you figure that I could never love anyone other than you, after feeling the way that I love you. Until you go through my phone, and find the secrets I have hidden away. And you’ll feel a deep Crimson again, and finally when you’ve stopped seeing red, you realize I have a black eye and your knuckles are bruised. So you’ll apologize and kiss me in every crevice of my body. And I’ll finally let you inside of me, because I never love anyone that doesn’t hurt. And you’ll be so happy and feel like you’re on top of the world, whilst also wondering how I could ever let you touch me after you had let your anger control you, and left me in colors of black and blue. But you’ll be so thankful that I didn’t leave you, you’ll forget about it, even while my phone is ringing and I tell you I have to go to the bathroom. Months will have passed by, and you’re still following me with puppy eyes. You can’t turn your face a fraction of an inch without feeling immediate despair. You will always have to be fucking touching me. When I move you will coordinate your movements with mine, because it doesn’t feel right if we aren’t completely aligned. You will stop crying when you see my phone light up, because this is normal now, and you understand that I am the way that I am, for reasons that you will never know. And you will realize trying to change me would only result in me leaving you empty. And you can’t even stomach the thought so you stare at the wall with blank eyes and convince yourself one day things will be perfect, and you will pat yourself on the back and realize you are in my bed every night. And I’ll feel despair in every crook and cranny of my body, and wish I hadn’t been raised to be such a destructive fuck. You will start to want to fuck me every second. Because you enjoy making me feel things, you enjoy seeing my body shaking and also seeing me completely vulnerable. And ill silently wonder how you could ever find me vulnerable whilst my hands are always around your neck.
—  you don’t have to go through this, you can leave me without a second glance. this is a warning - teenagge-wastelandd.tumblr.com

Regina Harris
You were coffee in the morning, and cigarette smoke caught in my lungs. Words that couldn’t form sentences, sentences that couldn’t form paragraphs. You were galaxies, I found galaxies in between your fingers and inside of your head. You were cold nights, wrapped in blankets. You were mountains, you were earthquakes and tsunamis, all in a single body. You were everything complicated, no lefts or rights, no yes’s, or no’s. You were the epitome of greatness, a third world danger, a disease I never got around to hating. You were chill bumps, on my legs and my arms. You were all of the oceans I knew, confusing depths of blue I couldn’t ever figure out. You were fires, fires that spread throughout my brain, my cells, my fingers and my thighs. You were all my favorite Beatles songs, fireworks in July. You were my favorite books, laced with words that took a new meaning every time I read each page. You were sheets I’d wrap into, feeling more like ocean waves. You were the depths of everything unknown, everything unexplained. We will forever remain unfinished, you are my heart, you are my days.
—  teenagge-wastelandd.tumblr.com

Regina Harris
I suppose I’m confused because I never claimed to be a pleasurable character to fall in love with. Between moans of pleasure coming from you, were confusing “I’m sorry, God damn, I’m so sorry’s” from me. And I remember, the first night you looked at me into my eyes and whispered that you loved me for the first time, I remember looking at you apologetically, whispering my apologies, not only for my abrupt departure from your arms. Yet I’m standing here, staring into a face full of betrayal, a face of confusion. I’m standing here, even after every single apology I made, clothed in a shirt that smells like your tears, covered in skin that feels more like disgusting layers of remorse. Because my lips were off right when they met yours, you tasted some kind of cherry Chapstick, and not the cigarette I just smoked. And I’m sorry, God damn, I’m sorry. I never claimed to be a saint, I never promised to hold your bones together in a way that would make you feel safe, a way to make you feel as if I’d never leave, because God knows I was planning my footsteps walking away from you before I even said hello. And I’m sorry; I’m so fucking sorry for that. Because your skin tastes like vanilla, and promises. And my skin tasted like something you couldn’t ever recognize, something sweet, so god damn addicting, and you could never pinpoint just what it was. And I hated to whisper while your lips were on my neck, trying to cover every inch of my skin with your sweet, innocent saliva; I hated to whisper that you tasted tragedy in my pores, that tragedy ran through my veins, and covered my heart in a stone-like protection. I couldn’t, no I couldn’t ever whisper that. And your innocent demeanor, was so attractive, and I couldn’t help but turn you into a seductive kind of girl when my hands were between your thighs, and your innocent hellos turned into moans of pleasure. And you wanted me so bad, and I wrote apologies all over every inch of your sweet, sweet skin, but you never took the time to read them because your eyes were to busy looking at car crashes, plane crashes, train wrecks that only consisted inside of the skin and bones that were covered by my disgusting, skin. And I couldn’t whisper to you, no I couldn’t even scream to you, that I was planning my footsteps walking away from you, whilst you were planning yours to follow me wherever I should go. And I’m sorry, I’m so god damn sorry for that.
—  I was telling you I was sorry, with my hands around your neck - teenagge-wastelandd.tumblr.com

Regina Harris
She was enticing. Starting with her shoulder length, shaggy black hair. She was constantly flipping it, as to move it from her brown eyes. I had always found beauty in ocean blue pupils, but her brown eyes put me in a stupor, that I felt immobilized me every single damn time she looked at me. She had electric blue veins traveling up her arms like rivers. Rivers that I believe, if opened, would transform into oceans, every god damn ocean in the world. Her veins, just her veins could drown every last bit of me and my twisted soul. She listened to music that had no words, and I asked her what the point was, if there was nothing to sing along to. She simply shrugged her shoulders, “preference. Words can’t always cover what you feel.” I couldn’t reply, I couldn’t even shake my head in agreement. Her lips, her lips were full, and blood red. Feeling them travel up my spine, I was sure she left a trail of deep Crimson. And she did, she did, but you could not see it. It was one of those invisible pains. Because I still feel the places where she kissed me burning when it’s late at night, or when the moon is a certain shade of red. She was lanky, skin and bones. She had piano fingers, and she played me like the keys. She ceased all of the beautiful music that riveted from my soul once she drifted to the next broken girl she came across. I couldn’t bare to hear my melody coming from another girls being, God damn I could never live through that. She smoked cigarettes, one or five every hour, depending on “the way her head was feeling that day.” But when she kissed my lips I couldn’t smell cigarette smoke, only the scent of burning flesh came across my senses. She liked fire, she smiled at fatal car wrecks, she had to suppress a giggle if a plane crashed and killed hundreds of people. And I loved her, that mother fucker, she was a tragedy. She looked at tragedy as a work of art, and when she came into me and held my wobbly bones together until they were strong enough, I wasn’t what she was looking for anymore. She consisted only of complications. I found her brooding most of the time I spent captivated by her very essence. When I lay on top of the skin, that stretched so comely across her bones, I felt we could just conflate, become each other. I felt we could mold together somehow. She had some eloquence about her, a few words and I found myself in the back of a van injecting things in my arm that I knew nothing about. Our time together was long-lasting, but to me quite evanescent. She disappeared like the smoke that came from my cigarettes that she got me addicted to. One of the many things she managed to convince me would help me in the long run, but my lungs are black and I miss her face. She was lissome, I wouldn’t let myself fully fall asleep for I hoped to catch her leaving every morning, but I’d be awoken to reach across the bed to feel the empty sheets, and the sound of my bones cracking, crumbling from the loss of her touch.
—  why am I always writing about the tragedy of myself - teenagge-wastelandd.tumblr.com

Regina Harris
crawl up to my window crying, because not a mother fucking thing is right without me.
you’re wincing that you can’t untangle the unbreakable chains I have wrapped around your throat, but baby that’s just my hands, don’t worry
and you’re begging, God, fuck, I hate to see you look so pathetic
but you’re begging for me to stop attaching myself to other girls souls, because one day you’re going to leave
I really can’t stop laughing, I’m so masochistic, I’m like a god damn disease speeding throughout your body.
only you’re not dying, no I’m not killing you. I won’t claim to be a murderer, you’re killing yourself, baby, it’s your choice
and you’re screaming, and I love it. because I can always make you scream, in pain, more so in pleasure, either way, you love the way I hurt you
why are you looking for me in that stupid bitch, you could have had a little more taste. her music taste sucks and she smokes menthols, sweetie, you can’t replace me, you can’t
your hand reflexes to slap me but you grab my flesh instead, and you’re imagining melting into my skin to become apart of me, and I agree, because baby you’ve always wanted to be apart of me
and you’re scared, fuck, I’d be scared too. because you don’t want to be subjected to me, darling. no because I give you pain, and you give me love, but you don’t want to feel what it’s like to not be able to feel a God damned thing
lift yourself up, I’m trying to warn your pretty eyes, that you’re chin up in my blue. and I’m describing the water to you as you’re gasping for air, but I can’t give you that
and you lift yourself back up to neck deep, barely but almost drowning every time I’m inside of you, every time I’m not
because you don’t want to feel a mother fuckin thing unless it’s from me
and your on the ground screaming to yourself
that everything’s temporary
but not me, baby I’m in your veins. you can’t even cut me out
—  you can’t even cut me out - teenagge-wastelandd.tumblr.com
I thought about you today, and I guess that’s when I realized I hadn’t thought about you in a few days. And I suppose that’s what also led me to believe that I’m not in love with you anymore. You came across my mind like a scattered thought, like “I need to pick some milk up from the store,” only it was “I wonder how she’s been doing.” It was such an innocent, simple thought about you that it startled me. Because nothing involving you and I had ever been innocent or simple. Everything was harmful, or complicated. I suppose when I think back to you, it obviously won’t be pleasant memories, you caused me a lot of pain that was unnecessary; a lot of pain that I did not deserve. But today, upon realizing that I, indeed, had not thought of you, when for nine months you were all I ever did think of, I realized that I would like to remember how happy you could make me. The giddiness in my stomach when you would say my name, the light in my eyes when I would see you. But after the minute-long reminiscing that went on in my mind, unnoticed, I couldn’t stop myself from thinking, quite frankly, what a god damn idiot you are. For I gave you parts of me that girls, excuse my egotistical thought, would kill to obtain from me. I would’ve swam across oceans, I would’ve walked through fires, (though being with you, I feel I did anyways), just to make you happy, or content. And to tell the truth, you never were. But see, I always believed you as fragile. Because I knew that you were damaged. I knew that you had been hurt countless times, and I felt that you were to be handled carefully. I see now, that I was the fool. For damaged people have been characters in a video game, they have died, figuratively speaking, countless times. They know that they can survive. I don’t regret you, I don’t regret letting you inside of me, in more ways than one, and I don’t regret you ripping me to pieces. Because I looked in the mirror through this thought process, and you’re the fool now. Because you killed me so many times, but God damn I’m still alive.
—  teenagge-wastelandd.tumblr.com

Regina Harris
one day you’re going to meet someone 
and you’re going to tell them how I’m still burrowed into the deepest parts of your soul

you’re going to tell them that my voice gives you nightmares

and how I used to shoot venom in your veins

which Is why when she touches them you cringe

you’re going to tell her I was the moon & you were just a person

that no matter how much you looked & loved I always went away

she’s going to ask you why you cry when it rains

and you’re going to say it’s force or habit

you’re going to tell her I twisted your veins in knots that you can’t get out 
and she’s going to tell you she will fix them

she won’t ever fix them

one day you’re going to meet someone and you’re going to think you love them

until it’s 6 am and you’re screaming my name in your sleep
—  you’re never going to forget me, you might as well just come back - teenagge-wastelandd.tumblr.com

Regina Harris
I’d probably go to church every Sunday if I found my way back into your bed
but I don’t think God cares whether my tired bones
gather themselves together enough to sit in a pew
and pretend like I’m listening when all I can think of is you
and I’d probably quit smoking cigarettes
if your hands weren’t intertwined into someone else’s
but instead mine,
but my hands are clammy because you make me nervous
and I don’t want you to hold them if it doesn’t feel right
I look at the ocean because I can’t get into the water
it frightens me, the unknown, things that are unexpected
how terrible of a hypocrite I am, for I want you to
risk drowning in the blue of my deepest secrets
of all the lies I would never get around to correcting
I’d probably decline my fathers phone call
if you stayed just one more night
so I wouldn’t have to hear the twisted liquid lies
you’d tell me I was too good for him and I’d believe you
but now that you aren’t here im just the same
I’d probably call that girl I fucked and left
and I’d tell her how sorry I was
if you found your way back to my bed
because I’d know she didn’t deserve it
just as much as I didn’t deserve you
I’d probably tell my sister how sorry I am
If you called me and told me the same
but you aren’t calling, and you aren’t sorry
so why should I be?
—  teenagge-wastelandd.tumblr.com

Regina Harris
You were the alphabet, consisting of the lovely o shape of your mouth, down to the perfect v between your thighs. You were the depths of everything I never knew, everything I wanted to figure out. You were time. Time that was slowly running out, something you couldn’t ever put a stop to. I memorized the lines on your body, the shape of your nose, the curve of your mouth. It didn’t take long to realize that you were a combination of everything I would never be able to live without.
—  teenagge-wastelandd.tumblr.com

Regina Harris
I guess it’s because she was a girl that could control the temperature. One second her hands were touching me and I was 100 degrees, fires raging throughout my body. But she’d call me and her voice sent invisible chills through my pores, ice sickles forming around my veins, my arteries. I guess it’s because she was a girl who consisted of a tragedy. Terrible car wrecks would remind me of the first time she said my name. I saw a boy get shot by his father, but all I could think of was the way her lips felt on my neck. I guess it’s because she was a girl but more like a death sentence. When I met her I knew she’d be the death of me. But I knew I’d leave everything to her in my will. I knew I’d be seven feet deep and she’d be smiling with satisfaction. I guess it’s because she was a girl that knew how to be an ocean. She only consisted of the unknown. She was the ocean and I was the waves. She moved me in a way I don’t believe I could ever explain. I guess it’s because she was a girl that didn’t know what goodbye meant. I would be confused for weeks, leaving voicemails and messages. But then she’d knock on my window like she never left.
I guess it’s because she was a girl, but more like my favorite pain.
—  teenagge-wastelandd.tumblr.com

Regina Harris
I can still smell your scent on my clothes, in my hair. I see your face, and your features are familiar. A mixture of all I’ve ever known, and all I want to know. I remember your hands exploring every part of my skin, as if to not leave on inch of me untouched by you. I assume you were making sure that I’d never forget you, but I wanted to tell you that you were etched into my skin forever. Your eyes are important, more important than they should be. For when you looked me in my eyes earthquakes broke out, volcanos erupted, tsunamis swept across everywhere possible. You were mine, God damn, you were mine. And there was nothing more tragic than you and me together. You were the bright yellow and I was a deep blue, occasionally grey. We combined and my sad parts drowned your happy parts but I loved you, fuck, at least I never forgot to do that. Your eyes were oceans, oceans that were dangerous, uncontrollable, and unavoidable. But I stepped into your waves and let myself swim, so long until I realized you were drowning me and Goddamn I loved every second of it.
—  teenagge-wastelandd.tumblr.com

Regina Harris
When I met her, she came through my body and my head like a hurricane. I wouldn’t ever call her unwelcome, she was like a hurricane I had waited for my entire life. The peculiar part is, I never really knew I was waiting on her until she came, and I breathed a sigh of relief. Even as she was slowly destroying me, even as she was ripping down my foundation, every single cell that ever combined to make me, I was relieved.
And you. You came like a pretty sun on a slightly, yet not unbareable, chilly day. You built me up, and brushed the dust off of the unread, unbothered stories of my mind. You combined your words, only in ways that would make me giggle, only in ways that would make me smile. I did smile, the corners of my lips turned into a smile so many times, I more than once wondered if you were just a dream. And I’d gather my things at the end of the night, but fell asleep wishing I could feel her hurricane inside of me, just one more time.
She didn’t want my happy moments, she never cared to hear about the first time my mother took me to a bookstore. She wanted to hear my tragedys, and oh god I never knew how many I had until she created about a million more. She wanted to know why I loved my mother, but never spoke of my father. She begged to hear why I cried when she first touched me between my legs. She was the burn on my face, the electric chill currents running down my spine. She was lightening, thunder, and rain. She was a disease I could never turn away, one I could barely keep myself from begging to consume me. She was a book I couldn’t ever put down. She was demons I knew I would have to face someday, the kind I wanted to face everyday, as long as I was kissing her lips.
And you. You were asking me about the first book I ever read. You were the hand on the small of my back. You were the passenger seat of my car, covering up a cigarette burn. You were the hands I fell apart in, and the hands that tried to put me right back together. My father called and you were the voice telling me to face my fears, while she was the hand pressing the ignore button before my eyes could water. You wanted to know how the places I’d like to travel, what made me happy, the parts of my mind that consisted of bright moments. You brought me a CD with all of my favorite songs when my dog died and held my hand when it seemed to be made of spikes. You were the hand that kept reaching, even when I shrugged away.
She was the hands searching for the places on my skin that hurt me to touch. She was the never ending questions asking where I got the scar on my chest, why was I scared to hold her hand. She was the one wondering why the word commitment hurt rolling off of my tongue. She was the presense that resulted in me biting my nails, or my lips. She left me, usually, with clammy hands and a much higher number on orgasms I’ve had in my life. She was fucking me and you were making love. She was cold in her heart, but my skin was burning where she touched me. She left welts on my thighs, my hands, my collar bones. She was the time my father left for the first time, she was the time when my sister broke into a million pieces and loaded them all onto my back for me to hold, until I could find the strength to put her back together.
You were something like an angel, but she was something like my favorite devil.
—  teenagge-wastelandd.tumblr.com

Regina Harris
@ teenage boys

why do you feel the need to degrade women for everything they do? and say homophobic things? and be assholes? is it really that hard to just fucking shut your mouths and spread love, instead of hate? just asking for a friend :) xo