The most **** thing about a guy has nothing to do with his clothes, hair or eye colour.
It's in the way he looks at you with longing, when you finally find out he wants you just as badly as you want him.
When he pulls you so close to him that there is literally no space between you, because he can't stand the thought of there being any.
When he kisses you, so that it feels as if he is stealing the air from your lungs, and for those few seconds you forget what air even is.
When all thoughts go out the window and its just him, with you,in the most simple way possible.
Now that is the definition of ****.
Pure passion is ecstacy...
i thought maybe
maybe it wasn't true.
maybe it didn't actually happen.
but then i hear you confirm my worst nightmare
and that's when reality comes crashing in.
deeper into a pit
i'm not sure if i'll ever return.
i'm not sure if i want to.
Words spill like ink from a ***
or blood from a wrist.
And let's be honest...
There isn't a difference anymore.
They scratch their suffering on skin
and scream their love like diagnoses.
Diagnosis, a death sentence,
bated breath because *"I've fallen in love."
Mental illness makes "love" a heady thing.
i'm on my back.
this is my favorite place to be.
beneath you. feeling you slide in effortlessly. your broad shoulders holding yourself up.
maybe that's vanilla. maybe that's hot. but i don't care. and neither do you.
i feel safe. secure. loved.
my eyes closed.
but then my eyes are open.
and you are no longer there.
but the feeling of safety and security do not change. they do not leave me.
i am still safe and secure.
for you were only helping me find those things within myself.
you were never actually there.
how very vanilla of me
when we fight i see my father in you. when you yell i imagine the fights my mother and father always had. but how we make up is so differently from them. they'd just go to different rooms.
we stay in the same one. you kiss me and i kiss you back and we dont even have to say anything to know that we are both sorry. the eagerness of our hands ripping off clothes and our lips tasting each others is enough to say that for us. it is enough that everything we were just arguing about means nothing.
throw me on the bed. kiss every crevasse of my body so softly and easily that it makes me feel as though it is music that is dancing on my skin. ** every part of me that you feel needs it.
but when you're done don't walk away. now it is my turn to make music dance on your skin with my knees pressed to the floor ground.
-how we make up
(inspired by rupi kaur)
— The End —