Mar 2012
Your lips are dry like mine, and the stubble on your upper lip and cheeks scratches my face.
I can tell you are exactly what I want in bed.
You are fun, energetic, controlling, a little bit selfish so I will actually have to work, too.
I don’t let anything happen, though,
as much as my gut and my blood want it to happen,
because I’ve given my heart and my brain joint custody and they both know you’re a terrible decision,
that especially being in your bed and
smelling your skin and
touching your hair and
even looking at you in public is a risk.
I want to be in your body and your brain and your heart,
but you just don’t feel as intensely as I do, probably about anything,
because you’re just a boy,
you’re just a person with priorities and thoughts and control,
and I’m just a girl,
I’m just a bag of bones and blood and dreams. I feel and you don’t. You just don’t.
I am made of bones and blood and dreams.
I am made of hopes and fear and adrenaline.
I am made of tears and teeth and tangled hair.
I am made of loathing and gluttony and predatory instincts.
I am made of skin and curves and fingertips.
I am made of orange and blue and brown.
You could be so much to me.
Your body wants to. Your body wants to hold mine, you are my fire at night, you let me put my cold ******* feet on your legs and keep them there so they would warm up.
You want to. Your body wants this, it wants mine,
it wants to feel my skin and my lips and my nails.
Your hair wants to be tangled in my fists and pulled tight.
Your hips want to crush mine with your weight,
to match the heat of our bodies face to face.
Your hands want to curl around mine.
I felt it, for just a few minutes you held mine like a father holds his child’s little fists,
or like a lover holds the blessed fingers of his companion’s hands close so that they will not stray.
The fist, that is our motif.
I want to punch you, to hit you on the *** and in the face and against your chest.
I want to wrap your hair around my fists and press your cheeks to my closed hands.
How fickle my heart and how woozy my eyes.
In these bodies we will live, in these bodies we will die.
Where you invest your love, you invest your life.
How wise you are, Mumford, you and your Sons.
Will I do this again to myself?
Will I continue to climb into your bed,
to press my tired cheek against your tired chest,
to wrap my weary fingers around your lion’s mane?
Will I keep testing my emotional limits on you, Mt. Kilimanjaro of the West?
I have to ask myself these questions and decide what to do. My sanity for the next month or so depends on it.
I made a promise to myself not to blindly and needlessly give away my affections,
not to accept love and touch where it didn’t belong.
Have I broken this promise already?
Have I already given up on myself, on my will, on my future, on my ability to dream and reshape myself?
I don’t know if I can stay away from you. I truly don’t know.
The smart part of me, my brain,
my dying brain,
reasonably denies you as an option.
My brain listens to you when you say you will break my heart.
My heart doesn’t hear that at all.
Can you lie next to her and give her your heart, your heart
As well as your body, and can you lie next to her and confess your love, your love
As well as your folly?
But tell me now where was my fault, in loving you with my whole heart?
Lead me to the truth and I will follow you my whole life
I felt your bones,
for you are so thin.
I felt your stretched muscles and a hot need to hold you close to my body.
I have not cried about it yet but I feel tears beating against the backs of my eyes,
which you said were pretty, and Kelso said they had sunflowers inside of them on good days
and when they are green I can’t stop smiling because I think when my eyes are green they are sexier and prettier
and that it’s God’s way of telling me to be confident,
that I am lovely and worthy and must work for the things I desire.
I can tell you are exactly what I want in bed.
You are fun, energetic, controlling, a little bit selfish so I will actually have to work, too.
I don’t let anything happen, though,
as much as my gut and my blood want it to happen,
because I’ve given my heart and my brain joint custody and they both know you’re a terrible decision,
that especially being in your bed and
smelling your skin and
touching your hair and
even looking at you in public is a risk.
I want to be in your body and your brain and your heart,
but you just don’t feel as intensely as I do, probably about anything,
because you’re just a boy,
you’re just a person with priorities and thoughts and control,
and I’m just a girl,
I’m just a bag of bones and blood and dreams. I feel and you don’t. You just don’t.
I am made of bones and blood and dreams.
I am made of hopes and fear and adrenaline.
I am made of tears and teeth and tangled hair.
I am made of loathing and gluttony and predatory instincts.
I am made of skin and curves and fingertips.
I am made of orange and blue and brown.
You could be so much to me.
Your body wants to. Your body wants to hold mine, you are my fire at night, you let me put my cold ******* feet on your legs and keep them there so they would warm up.
You want to. Your body wants this, it wants mine,
it wants to feel my skin and my lips and my nails.
Your hair wants to be tangled in my fists and pulled tight.
Your hips want to crush mine with your weight,
to match the heat of our bodies face to face.
Your hands want to curl around mine.
I felt it, for just a few minutes you held mine like a father holds his child’s little fists,
or like a lover holds the blessed fingers of his companion’s hands close so that they will not stray.
The fist, that is our motif.
I want to punch you, to hit you on the *** and in the face and against your chest.
I want to wrap your hair around my fists and press your cheeks to my closed hands.
How fickle my heart and how woozy my eyes.
In these bodies we will live, in these bodies we will die.
Where you invest your love, you invest your life.
How wise you are, Mumford, you and your Sons.
Will I do this again to myself?
Will I continue to climb into your bed,
to press my tired cheek against your tired chest,
to wrap my weary fingers around your lion’s mane?
Will I keep testing my emotional limits on you, Mt. Kilimanjaro of the West?
I have to ask myself these questions and decide what to do. My sanity for the next month or so depends on it.
I made a promise to myself not to blindly and needlessly give away my affections,
not to accept love and touch where it didn’t belong.
Have I broken this promise already?
Have I already given up on myself, on my will, on my future, on my ability to dream and reshape myself?
I don’t know if I can stay away from you. I truly don’t know.
The smart part of me, my brain,
my dying brain,
reasonably denies you as an option.
My brain listens to you when you say you will break my heart.
My heart doesn’t hear that at all.
Can you lie next to her and give her your heart, your heart
As well as your body, and can you lie next to her and confess your love, your love
As well as your folly?
But tell me now where was my fault, in loving you with my whole heart?
Lead me to the truth and I will follow you my whole life
I felt your bones,
for you are so thin.
I felt your stretched muscles and a hot need to hold you close to my body.
I have not cried about it yet but I feel tears beating against the backs of my eyes,
which you said were pretty, and Kelso said they had sunflowers inside of them on good days
and when they are green I can’t stop smiling because I think when my eyes are green they are sexier and prettier
and that it’s God’s way of telling me to be confident,
that I am lovely and worthy and must work for the things I desire.
