Don't be
A mole.

I hate moles.

They burrow
And
Scavenge
And
Live in the
Dark.

Thats just
What you did
To my heart.

You burrowed
Deep,
Down to the center.

You set up camp.
And I didn't know
You were a mole.
I thought maybe you were
A
Straw,
To ****
Bad things
Out.
So I kept you warm
And waited calmly for the
Bad stuff to
Dissapear.

But I realized
That
You were a
Magnifying glass,
To emphasise
My flaws

And you were
A
Seam-ripper
To
Pull the patches
From where
I had already healed,
To make the scabs
Bleed
Again.

And I thought you were
A
Jigsaw
And you were broken
So I could fix you
And put you
Together.

Like a
Vase,
Easily
B
r
o
k
e
n.

And
Then
You left me.

Like a
Tooth
Full of
Cav it ies.

That
Space
Next
To
My heart

No longer full.
And you
Didn't depend on me,
No longer a tapeworm.

I miss you.
Like
You
Were
Mine.

But you were
Never
Mine.

Thank you for breaking me
And making me
A better me

Thank you for hurting me
And making me
A stronger me

Thank you for shooting me
And making me
Bulletproof

Thank you for burning me
And making me
Fireproof

Roommate Wanted;
Dorm includes:

Kitchen,
      With complete set of
      appliances and a table
      meant for two.

Living Room,
       with a coffee table , tv
       and the sofa we used to
       watch movies and cry on.

A Bathroom,
      with hot water and
      lonely showers.

A bedroom,
      with a half empty
      king sized bed

And closet space
     which used to house the shoes
     you walked away from me in.


For inquiries please call this number:

i am far too flammable to be playing with matches like this but i like the way your hands burn and i like the singes on my dress, my hair, my skin and i know i shouldn’t but burning feels more alive than freezing and my body has been shaking from the cold for months now and even if this hurts just as much it’s so nice to just feel something, something different, something at all. cold eats you from the inside out, the ice spreading from your stomach to your throat before it appears on your lips and cold feels like nothing. you lose the sensation of touch and you lose your breath and it happens so slowly you don’t realize it at first. this is what my life has been like: slowly freezing me solid, deep freeze through to my heart, until my flesh can’t remember what it’s like to be flushed and warm and alive. fire is different; the flames dance on your skin and scorch you before your nerves register the feeling, before you realize the danger, and this is what you feel like. i want to commit small acts of arson with you and i want us to burn down the house i grew up in and we can kiss with the flames reflected in our eyes. you are my original sin, you are my Morningstar turned lucifer, you are mine.

hashtagsarepointless
#imissthespacebarsomuch                                            
#trendthisyouassholes

I'm sitting the passenger's seat
of a bright blood orange 1973 Ford Pinto.
Adam Levine is driving.
We talk about the weather,
and sing along to some Hall and Oates on the radio.
(By the way, he nails those high notes—
just like Adam Levine should.)

In the interim, we share a pint of
Starbucks Pumpkin Spice Latte ice cream—
a flavor which we both agree
is subpar and a total disappointment.
As he passes the pint back to me,
he admits that his abs in half the photos
you see in People magazine are Photoshopped,
and pats his little round belly in jest.
I confess that I can always identify
even the most flawless Photoshop jobs—
and honestly, I don't think
he is the sexiest man alive anyway.

We have a laugh after that one, Adam and me,
and devour the silence for a bit before
I lean in and ask him if he even knows
where he's taking us.
He leans in too and makes some brief,
but serious eye contact,
(his eyes are hazel, by the way),
and he says something to me
that I really need to hear.

“It doesn't matter
if I know where we're going, Bitsy.
You can always get there from here.”

I lean back in my seat
and smile as I watch the world streak by.

Nevermind the obvious quirks in my physique—
the thick thighs,
short legs,
t-rex arms,
and that ample, curvaceous figure of mine
which I own and work every day.

[Listen,
I'm certain I could get into the glitter—
no doubt I would have a killer stage name—
I figure I’d get pretty used to the instant gratification—
and there's no doubt in my mind
that whatever I lack in grace and *** appeal,
I could make up for in
charm, wit,
and a cuteness that I'm still growing into.]

But see, I have a slight fear of wearing heels.
It's safer for everyone if I stick close to the ground.
And although swinging around a pole
seems like a good time,
my motion sickness would probably kick in
and I'd ralph hard
on at least one of my investors.

Aside from the faulty mechanics I'd bring to the profession,
I've got my own rationale.

I like knowing
that when my clothes come off,
it's for reasons larger than money.
I like knowing
that I've left a little to the imagination
and can unleash it at my leisure.
I like knowing
that my secret weapons of mass seduction
are, in fact, secrets.
I like knowing
that I still have something to blush about
when I think about how I spent my Saturday night.

Nah,
I could never be a stripper,
but hot ****,
do I enjoy perfecting the art
of smiling while naked.