Blow smoke rings the size of my neck and make me feel just as insignificant. My collarbones don't dissipate into the air when you touch them but I wish that I could sublimate when your fingers are barely touching my skin and gliding up. I shouldn't trust you as far as I can throw you, but I just want to throw myself against you and collide your mouth against mine as though our lips were two raindrops on the window crashing towards each other with no stopping, both thinking "oh my god oh my god oh my god" before we morph into one.
I am so used to feeling like garbage, so for once, pretend like the beads of sweat on my neck are diamonds and tell me I'm your precious stone and don't let this sapphire night escape us without drawing ruby drops of blood from my tongue.
There are some things my mother never told me, like "always make sure that the boy you meet is actually alive, and not just an empty puppet being pulled by the heart strings" and "never trust a boy with sleepy eyes", but it's always good to know these things ahead of time because one day he will have your heart in his hands and won't have anything for you and one day you will realize that he's always tired because he spends all of his time thinking about someone that isn't you. And knowing what I know now compared to what I knew then makes me wish I never ached to squirm under your hands and makes me regret every moment I spent longing to fill very space between your fingers because now I can't stop writing about it.
Do you know about the garden of dead boys? It can be found in the place where the roses die. There is a "keep out" sign designed to not seem so until it's too late.  Until then, it appears to say "I love you" and you will wander in. But if you find yourself asking him "where have you been all my life", that's the time to run while you can because maybe he never actually existed.
-b.b.