Molha-me os lábios até me deixares sem folgo. Molha-mos até que a minha respiração esteja ofegante, até já não conseguires mais.
Vamos a todos os cantos do mundo, e em cada um deles tirar uma foto aos beijos, uma foto em que demonstre o nosso amor. Sei que não são precisos beijos para demonstrar carinho, amor ou paixão, mas é a forma mais simples de demonstrar o afeto que tenho por ti. O amor que sinto e que sei que nunca acabará. Normalmente gosto das coisas mais complexas, mas este "amor" é tão difícil de explicar da forma correta. É tão complexo... Por isso gosto de o explicar da forma mais simples, da forma que todos percebam que tu, tu és especial. Que tu és aquela pessoa que eu amo e nunca deixarei de amar. Tu és-me tanto, meu amor. Meu querido e eterno amor.
Meu amor, peço-te uma coisa, só uma coisa: molha-me os lábios até me deixares sem folgo.

she belongs to the light
and he
to the night
but she
refuses to be afraid
vile eyes, full of hate
heart of igneous
she breaks down
the compounds
and love is known

loneliness invites itself in
alone in my bedroom
you could hear the drop of a pen
I'm waiting for a call
that I know won't come
yet I stare at my phone
and feel my face go numb
my eyes start to burn
I try to withhold
but the tears return
I am alone
more alone than alone
I know you aren't to blame
but I'm losing my mind
I am drifting away
misery loves company
I understand it this time

pale skin.
dark hair, green eyes.
very timid and shy.
feet on the ground, head in the sky.
charlie.

He breathes deeply.
Chest rising to its fullest potential.
Pushing his heat onto my skin.
His sweat merges with mine, creating a barrier between us.
We are hungry to consume one another.
To be so full of each other that we split at the seams
And slip into the space between the mattress and the wall.
I want the smell of his neck to be carved into my memory.
That patch of flesh just below his right ear,
I can feel the veins pumping. Pumping.
He is a solid mass.
A mountain.
I want him to crush me till I am only air.
Till I can breathe again.
But I only want to breathe him in.
I want to eat him.
Wrap my teeth around his collar bones, ear lobes, pinky fingers.
When the sunlight crashes into the room, we call a truce.
His eyes close.
His breathing slows.
Preparing for the battle ahead.
Eventually, I close my eyes as well.

I want to choke on your love.
I want you to strangle me,
Drown me,
Stab me,
Beat me,
With your heart.
I want you to chop me into thin little lines
and snort me for the rest of your life.
I want your love to **** me.
So that mine, doesn't **** you.

I met a girl with flowers in her hair
not a crown or a clip, but cherry blossoms
they bloomed from her ears and her scalp and the hollow of her neck
she was a garden of eden

I met a girl with flowers in her hair
and roots that ran all the way down through her feet
they never held her in place
instead, they made the earth upon which she stood her home

I met a girl with flowers in her hair
who let summer sunbeams catch her eyes
as they glistened among ferny tendrils
until the autumn came

reading a book isn't about
reading good words carefully chosen
to create a magic display
of perfect scenes,
it's about feeling every moment and movement
that happens between covers
like that would happen in your present reality
and you're there,
ubiquitous,
deciding whether or not the action should continue.

Fair fa' your honest, sonsie face,
Great chieftain o the puddin'-race!
Aboon them a' ye tak your place,
Painch, tripe, or thairm:
Weel are ye worthy o' a grace
As lang's my arm.

The groaning trencher there ye fill,
Your hurdies like a distant hill,
Your pin *** help to mend a mill
In time o need,
While thro your pores the dews distil
Like amber bead.

His knife see rustic Labour dight,
An cut you up wi ready slight,
Trenching your gushing entrails bright,
Like onie ditch;
And then, O what a glorious sight,
Warm-reekin, rich!

Then, horn for horn, they stretch an strive:
Deil tak the hindmost, on they drive,
Till a' their weel-swall'd kytes belyve
Are bent like drums;
The auld Guidman, maist like to rive,
'Bethankit' hums.

Is there that owre his French ragout,
Or olio that *** staw a sow,
Or fricassee *** mak her spew
Wi perfect scunner,
Looks down wi sneering, scornfu view
On sic a dinner?

Poor devil! see him owre his trash,
As feckless as a wither'd rash,
His spindle shank a guid whip-lash,
His nieve a nit;
Thro ****** flood or field to dash,
O how unfit!

But mark the Rustic, haggis-fed,
The trembling earth resounds his tread,
Clap in his walie nieve a blade,
He'll make it whissle;
An legs an arms, an heads will sned,
Like taps o thrissle.

Ye Pow'rs, wha mak mankind your care,
And dish them out their bill o fare,
Auld Scotland wants nae skinking ware
That jaups in luggies:
But, if ye wish her gratefu prayer,
Gie her a Haggis

Mama told me to be careful in the gardens.
She said sometimes ivy is hidden between the flowers;
It's poisonous.
I would still play in them,
Their beauty pulling me in,
Innocently.
I failed to realize what she meant,
At the time.
But now life has taught me
To see the ivy,
Entwined with every flower I see.

-my