The strawberry milk boy. The lights are on but nobody is home kind of boy. The lost boy. There's something about his hands and how ever since that first spark you haven't stopped feeling the burning sensation on your thighs. Something about how every time you're rocking your body over his you want to whisper about loving him but never quite having the gumption. Something about knowing that it never lasts. Something about the broken glass on the kitchen floor and the way you always walk through it without shoes on. Something about knowing you'll get hurt and knowing it shouldn't be like this. Something about needing more. Something about always being the one to say sorry anyway. Something about the end.
Sep 19, 2016
Sep 19, 2016 at 7:50 PM UTC
I am sitting in my bedroom on a fresh summer morning, and I am thinking about you.
I am sitting in my bedroom on a fresh summer morning, and I am thinking about how gentle your hands are when they run themselves over the steep curves of my body.
I am sitting in my bedroom on a fresh, and somewhat rainy, summer morning, and I am thinking about the burn I got my on thumb last night when I was making a hot chocolate, and I am thinking about how it doesn't hurt. Your hands are electric, your mouth sparks fires in-between my thighs and they burn and burn and burn, but they never hurt.
I am sitting in my bedroom, and it's a rainy summer afternoon with a cool breeze and I can hear the trains passing on the track nearby and I am thinking about you and all the ways we could be great. And how, for the first time in my life, I don't mind being burnt if it means I get to share these fires with you.
Aug 2, 2016
Aug 2, 2016 at 6:11 PM UTC
One. No matter how much you scrub at yourself in the shower, you will never wash the feeling of his hands from your skin. You will learn to be okay.
Two. His lips tasted like strawberries and you'll never be able to eat them again without tasting something sour.
Three. Getting under someone else won't fix your problems, but it will help you forget.
Four. Hearing her name will spark a fire so intense in your chest that you'll think all of the flowers have been burnt, but I promise you they will grow back.
Four. It will pass.
Five. He'll never get tired of the way your body feels underneath his.
Six. Let him miss you.
Seven. Let him be angry that he lost you.
Eight. Let him hurt.
Nine. Burn his t-shirt. Burn his boxers. Burn the love notes. Burn everything and let the ashes be the last of him.
Ten. He'll get bored of her too. Don't let him crawl back to your bed.
Eleven. You'll let his empty coffee cup fall to the floor and you'll let it smash and then you'll cry as you pick up the pieces and you'll write a dumb poem about how your heart was his mug and he let it smash and then you will delete it and then you will heal. It will be okay. You will make it.
Twelve. Your first heartbreak will never prepare you for your second love.
Jul 29, 2016
Jul 29, 2016 at 7:21 AM UTC
Hey baby girl, I love you. I love you but stop. Stop acting like you've seen the world when everything you've experienced has been through rose tinted glasses. You know they're gonna smash one day. They're gonna smash and you're gonna be hit with reality but hey, hey pretty baby, I'll still love you. Hey sweets, hey sugar, hey spice. I know your glasses broke but you don't need to smash those bottles anymore. I'll still love you when the lights go out. I love your lips in Koko K and your high necks and your slender frame. Hey pretty baby, remember that dress your Mumma once described as a 'second skin'? Hey, remember the night we drove and drove and drove and stopped at sunrise? Remember the sound of the ocean inside your head? Remember the birds and the trees and the sand and the children screaming and the happy times? Remember asking for my number? Remember saying goodbye? Remember leaning in for the first kiss? Remember the daisies? Remember the shooting stars and the golden mornings? Remember? Hey pretty baby, it's okay if you don't want to remember anymore. I'm still sorry your glasses broke.
Jul 26, 2016
Jul 26, 2016 at 7:52 PM UTC
Today, I looked in the mirror and I noticed that my left collarbone pokes out more than my right. I noticed that one of my eyes is a deeper green that the other, and that one of my arms is just a smidgen longer. In the garden, I noticed that no two roses have the same amount of petals, no two blades of grass are the same height and no two trees have the same number of leaves. See, it got me thinking about you and I. It got me thinking about how neither of us said "I love you more." We rarely said "I love you too." It was always just "I love you." And it got me thinking that if no two roses, if no two trees, if no two arms on the same human body are the same, then maybe my "I love you" was different to yours. I know that when I told you I loved you, I meant I loved you. I loved every part of you, every nook and every cranny of your body, every inch of your mind and every skeleton in your wardrobe. **** there are so many skeletons. And maybe when you said "I love you" to me, you only meant that you loved the better sides of me. The smiles and the funny hair colours and the softer parts, or the parts that turned you on and touched your whole body until you were shaking underneath me. The parts of me that are whole. Maybe you didn't love my empty spaces. And maybe love is always different, maybe you'll never love me the way I loved you but maybe it's too ******* late for you to try.
Jun 29, 2016
Jun 29, 2016 at 8:20 AM UTC
This is your knife, and this is my heart.
This is my love, and this is how you show me that it is never enough.
These are my wounds, these are my bandages, and this is your salt.
Choose wisely.
This is my favourite song, and these are all the ways to make it yours.
This is my favourite author, and this is how you fall in love with their words.
These are my walls, and this is how you tear them down.
This is my favourite film, and this is when to kiss me without making me miss my favourite part.
This is the town inside of my head, and this is your house.
This is the key, and this is how you lose it without thinking twice.
This is the rain cloud that follows me around, and this is the umbrella I have been searching for.
This is the bottle you smashed, and these are the cuts I got from cleaning the mess.
This is your cigarette **** and this the fire it started.
There was my heart, and there are the remains.
There you are, and there is your knife.
Jun 27, 2016
Jun 27, 2016 at 7:06 AM UTC
I woke up in a strange bed this morning. I woke up in a bed that belongs to someone else, a bed with a pillowcase that doesn't match the duvet and a bed that doesn't feel like home. I woke up in a strange bed, but the bed doesn't belong to a stranger. The bed belongs to a past lover. Her hair colour doesn't match her eyebrows, it's blue and her eyebrows are brown, but she feels like home. She holds my hand and it's like I'm holding onto an angel. She drives us around in her old beat up car and it feels like I'm finally free. She brushes her lips against mine and it feels natural, it feels good. Maybe, just maybe, this is what I deserve. It won't be long until her bed feels like home. It won't be long until you're gone.
Jun 20, 2016
Jun 20, 2016 at 4:12 AM UTC
I don't miss you, but I don't sleep with the covers tucked in anymore. I started changing the sheets more often and I'm doing okay, but I'll never flip my pillow the way you did.
I don't miss you, but I leave crumpled wet towels on the floor now. I bought a new one specifically for my hair when it has just been dyed, it's plain black. I hope your blue towel is stained pink forever.
I don't miss you, but I haven't watched the sunset for the last two weeks. I've started watching the sunrise instead. I'm tired of endings. I'm still doing okay.
I don't miss you, but every time I write about you my heart races and everything turns into darkness. My doctor would probably suggest a pacemaker. I suggest another drink.
I don't miss you, but I had to block your number to stop myself crawling back. I still remember it better than my own.
I don't miss you, but maybe I'm lying to myself.
I don't miss you, but I hope you miss me.
I don't miss you, but maybe I should.
Jun 18, 2016
Jun 18, 2016 at 10:53 AM UTC
I'm six years old. I'm six years old and my favourite colour is green because it's the colour of my eyes and I think my eyes are the prettiest things I have ever seen.
I'm eight years old. I'm eight years old and I had a nightmare so bad I felt like my eyes were deceiving me. My favourite colour is now the same pale blue as my Mum's floral bedsheets because they make me feel safe.
I'm ten years old now. I'm ten years old and I'm a big girl because I'm allowed to walk to school with my friend instead of my Mum. We walk past fields of buttercups and other pretty flowers but my new favourite colour is the peach of the rose in my front garden.
I'm twelve years old. I'm twelve years old and I can't stand the colour green anymore because the meaner people in my school decided my self worth was less important than their jokes. I don't have a favourite colour anymore, but if you ask I'll say it's purple.
I'm fourteen years old. I'm fourteen which means I've been a teenager for a year and I still can't stand the colour green. My Mum let me dye my hair for the first time and now it is red and red is my favourite colour, but if you asked I would still tell you it's purple.
I'm sixteen now. I'm sixteen and I think I know everything, I met a boy that I like for the first time, my Mum doesn't know, but I think he makes the colour green a bit easier to look at because he told me he loves my eyes and that they are the most beautiful things he has ever seen. He gave me a pair of rose tinted glasses and I'm not quite sure why, but for now my favourite colour is the deep brown of his eyes but if anyone asks, my favourite colour is still purple.
I'm eighteen now. I'm eighteen and I can finally drink without it being illegal, and I have started drinking to forget everything except the colour of my Mum's pale blue floral bedsheets, the peach of the rose in my front garden, the bright red of my hair and the green of my eyes but most of all I'm drinking to forget the purple of the bruises that litter my skin, the purple that I always insisted was my favourite colour for reasons unknown to me.
I should be twenty years old now, and my favourite colour should be the orange of the sunset, the pink of the sunrise or maybe even the yellow of the buttercups in the fields I used to walk past on my way to school, but I did not make it to twenty years old. My favourite colour was never purple and I never asked for my skin to be constantly tainted that way, but you made sure I never healed and now my Mum is laying purple flowers on my grave and she's wishing she fought more to get my favourite colour to be green again like when I was six years old and in love with myself and the world around me, because if I still loved the innocent green then maybe I wouldn't be suffering my greatest nightmare as a child with the only comfort being tucked up in the seemingly endless sea of brown. I always tricked myself and everyone else into thinking things were perfect with rose tinted glasses but the lenses shattered and the last flower you laid on my grave was the peach coloured rose from my front garden, and now the petals have wilted and all of the colour has been drained from me but this new world has more hues than I could have ever dreamed of.
Jun 12, 2016
Jun 12, 2016 at 9:06 PM UTC
It's selfish, but I hope he misses me. I hope he sees her and misses me. I hope she kisses him and I hope it's never as gentle as the way I would kiss him, I hope she holds his hand when things get tough, but I hope her grip is too tight.
I hope he misses me. I need him to ******* miss me. I hope he looks into her eyes and wishes they were mine, I hope he brushes her hair and wishes it was pink or blue or green or any colour other than hers, I hope he wakes up in the middle of the night wishing he'd never let me go.
I hope he misses me. I hope she walks beside him and I hope he reaches for her hand only to find she's a different height to me and I hope it's not as comfortable. I hope he turns to her in bed and wishes it was me tucked into his side and I ******* hope he stutters when he says her name.
I hope he misses me. I hope he misses me half as much as I miss him. I hope he sees what kind of mistake he's made because I am so ******* kind and I was always so ******* gentle with his heart and I always handled it with so much care. I hope she slips and I hope she drops it. I hope she tries her best but I ******* hope it isn't enough.
I hope he misses me.
Jun 7, 2016
Jun 7, 2016 at 4:01 AM UTC