"pajama" poems
Its my body, my money, its up to me what I do with it.
But everyone else is wearing it.
I cant help the way I feel.
Blonde
Red
Orange
Brown
Purple
DMs purple with pink laces
school skirt altered in the textile lab 3" shorter
hormones racing, zipping, vibrating, fizzing till the top pops
stairs made for stomping and storming
cackling laughter crackling down the telephone wire
clothes left on the bedroom floor abandoned for a girl crisis.
You cant read my mind
read my lips
read my body
read my journal sandwiched between the midriff covering cottons gran bought for Christmas and the skimpy lace thong I'd be grounded for buying
Mother's mattress sanitary towels tossed aside
for shamefully purchased tampons
instructions included
and time has passed
and masks have fallen
and I find you there in the muck and the mire
and dust you off
until
I see your face - all mothers lipstick and glittering pink eye shadow
and the smile that stores secrets in a treasure chest.
Your legs shake like Bambi's but you get to your feet
and nestle yourself into me warmly, strongly until you fall right into me
and you run and you run and you run and you run and you run
right through my veins
giggles throbbing through my pulse
pajama parties and homemade perfume radiating in my eyes
and there you are
and there I am.
Jun 26, 2013
Jun 26, 2013 at 5:54 PM UTC
Today inspiration came in the form of a watermelon seed.
I was sitting on the couch
as per usual
and eating watermelon chunks
with my fingers.
I was doing nothing else productive.
I was eating
and being ugly
in my baggy black pullover
and my green pajama pants.
I thought about
how gross I would look
if anyone were to catch me
as I chewed on a mouthful of watermelon
and tried not to choke on the seeds.
I shamelessly licked the watermelon juice from my fingers.
Jan 11, 2014
Jan 11, 2014 at 12:24 AM UTC
I saw you in Tim Hortons for the first time in three years.
You told me I had grown and
I congratulated on you on your weight loss.
She is my best friend.
You didn't raise a child,
You raised an ironwork frame.
You threw a girl into reality before she could even spell the word.
And I would love to look at the other side, but I can't—
it always loops back around like that little girl
doing circles around on her ten-speed as she pulls up
to the convenience store to buy you cigarettes.
Hey, at least you called her an ambulance—
On Thanksgiving Day when she passed out
from lack of nutrition because you spent your last welfare check
on something I don't even want to hear your excuse for.
I remember my mother, coming into my room at eleven pm on a Wednesday, telling me to put some shoes on because you snapped a pool cue and placed it to a guy's neck.
My pajama pants ripped as I broke into your apartment to wake my best friend up and tell her that my mom was parked outside and she had to spend the night at my house.
You spent the night in the drunk tank hitting on officers.
She spent the night beside me crying and asking for any other mother but you.
We were in grade 6.
When she was 13, she had to live with me for 3 months because social services deemed you, "unstable."
When she was 14, she moved away to the city because she couldn't handle you anymore.
I went to visit her last weekend and she didn't say a single word about you.
Mar 28, 2013
Mar 28, 2013 at 1:49 AM UTC
How I adore your nerve
when you kissed me in your closet upon sheets made of legos
and all of your childhood dreams.
How easy I am for you to draw when you play on stage the song that you wrote me,
The one that feels like rock climbing by the river,
Like naps in the summer when I drool on your chest and you don't mind,
Like kissing you until the very last minute of my curfew,
only to break it for the miracle that is your lips.
How alluring is your breath on my neck,
Your voice in my ear when you told me that you loved me
and you didn't stop smiling,
even as the years went by and I did.
How I craved, longed, begged for time to be still
the time you took me to the highest hill you could drive to,
You called it my mountain.
"At first, you look at it and it's so small,
but once you notice it, it's all you can see," you said.
How my stomach floods with waves of nostalgia and a taste
of everything I've ever had to live without,
With complete and utter spell-binded devotion at the simple familiarity
of your smell.
How addicted I am to your laugh when you're happy and
the mastered impression you do of your mom.
How weak I am to your intellect and your appreciation of literature
and real music,
Your enthusiasm for art and the "name that note" game you force upon me
as you stumble onto the classical radio station.
How in love I am with your romance that is as childish as my attachment
to my baby blankie and my mother's childhood walrus that you never ceased to insult.
Our pajama day that we decided over our prom,
When we turned on John Mayer and slow danced in your room.
Your idea of a date consisted of fake wine and me.
How incredibly warm are the coldest of nights,
On the side of your dirt road as we lie in the snow that is too cold for comfort,
yet holds us there with the fear that one day will not look the same as this one
and I would bear any amount of cold winter to keep one more moment of yours.
How I cherish the way you latch my pinky with yours when we walk
And the face you don't know you make when you play guitar.
The rooftop where you kissed me for the very first time and the string rings
we wore to remind each other we were still there.
How incredibly and unfortunately devout I am to all that I remember of you.
Jan 20, 2014
Jan 20, 2014 at 2:51 AM UTC
;fear
We felt it, with our hands pressed tightly against our child-chests.
Boom
Boom
Boom.
It sounded nothing like a heartbeat,
But explosions being let off in the distance.
And it smelt nothing like fear,
It smelt like sweat and dried ***** caked onto torn pajama pants.
We grew to know the insides of our mouths,
with our soft gums clutched between our teeth -
We learned that our voices were safer kept stowed away there.
We picked at their hands like we picked at our scabs,
Because pulling off healing skin,
felt like pulling off a rooted burn,
And prying off desperate fingers from off our bones,
Meant prying off something that terrified us.
This was our strength;
This was our paralysis.
We felt it, with our ears pushed against the door,
Please
Please
Please
It sounded nothing like a pleading mother
But warm air, creeping through vents with a sudden force.
And it smelt nothing like fear,
It smelt of fresh blood, kissing the lips of a weeping woman.
We worshipped knives like they worshiped our baby-soft skin,
Because cutting open ourselves meant cutting out what they left inside,
And watching the filth flee
down our wrists, down our knees,
Felt like draining water
Out of a clogged tub.
It felt nothing life fear
It smelt nothing like decay
It was a continual clutch of the knife against their throats
This one's for you, daddy
Feb 6, 2018
Feb 6, 2018 at 9:42 PM UTC
Quincy Valero
Everybody’s best friend
Jet black hair
Shiny brown eyes
A boyish smirk
Standing six foot something
Coming out of catholic school agnostic
Attending state college
Every word that came out of his mouth was a riot
A funny story of a bad situation he was in that he can laugh at now
An awkward moment with a girl he tried to get in bed
God awful train rides with a clueless conductor
Quincy Valero
A wanna-be Casanova
The irish-italian self-proclaimed “Don Juan of Dumont”
Roaring down the suburb streets in his bright yellow mustang
From Bergen county to Trenton
Edgewater to Ewing
Bumping R&B; from the 90's
A main girl
A side chick
And a few back pocket broads
Leading them on
To where?
I’m not even sure he knows
Quincy Valero
My best friend since I’ve been here in Purgatory
My lifelong cellmate
My hetero life mate
My brother of second thought
Our token white boy
He’s had his ups
Wild ragers until day break
A four way with me and two girls in my four door sedan
He’s had is downs
Falsely charged with domestic abuse
Community service, endless court room hearings, suspensions and a whole bunch of nonsense
Quincy Valero
The quintessential example of the modern day male
Stays up all night
Sleeps all day
Opportunistic
Egotistical
Miserly
*****
And hungry
Always aching to put in his two cents
And leaving everyone in a howl of laughter
An Adderall popping
Seasoned drinker
A professional *** smoker, coached by yours truly
Fast talking baritone voice
With a half serious tone
Yes, Quincy Valero
The tight plain white t-shirt wearing
Chino sporting
Nostalgic, slightly racist, sexist, anti-semitic
Bust usually honest, friendly and apologetic
Good hearted dude we all love to hate
And hate to love
Bed-headed
Pajama bottom ***
Talking about his Svedka regrets
And we laugh and laugh and the stupidest things
Then remember events that seem so long ago
And then make plans for tomorrow
Yeah, one of my best friends
My oldest friend
That’s Mr. Quincy Valero
Mar 12, 2014
Mar 12, 2014 at 11:56 AM UTC
I sing of life at state expense
a state devoid of common sense
addicted to obesity
impolitic in body weight
yet headed for austerity
as other people’s money ends
plebeian class-revolt transcends
our bureaucratic history.
They stack the monthly welfare decks
complain the service second-rate
those sullen clients, thankless louts
pajama-clad with tattooed pouts
whose girlfriends swell while babies cry;
the fathers mumble, sagging high
and wait in lines. The women try
to fool the lunar period
conceptions waxing myriad
while teenage dads discover ***
and social workers cash the checks
the daily urban nightmare is
enough to scare a nation broke
in clouds of marijuana smoke:
the cashless global mystery.
The breeders born in tropic lands
are tempted till they take the bait
no baby-momma understands
what family means, what life demands
Your undertakers overstate
in order to remunerate
your Democratic history:
a bankrupt urban mystery
the not-so-Great Society.
The ghetto sperm-donation ploy
makes babies but maintains the boy
to run around from mom to mom
slow-motion population bomb
as if to merely demonstrate
that social program funders wait
till number-crunchers aggravate
the urban teenage welfare state.
Apr 18, 2016
Apr 18, 2016 at 4:36 PM UTC
Somewhere down in the depths of everyone, there is a spinning plate,
The Devil holds his stick parallel to yours and watches as you sweat,
You rip the sticky bottom of the bottle off of the glue and stick your bucket out to catch the fall,
The Devil plants his loafers and casually crosses one leg over the other,
Sometimes you even change the channel and pray that the entertainment value fills your cup,
The Devil licks the sides of your ice cream cone and draws faces in your food,
You drop your *** into the bean bag cloud and strum the buttons on your controller,
The Devil places the headset on his burning head and boils your water as you sit in the corner of the room, ignoring the kitchen,
Someone passes by with a similar stride and you turn a single glance into the Vietnam War,
The Devil sinks into the sofa and picks the fuzzies off of his jammies.
Nov 20, 2014
Nov 20, 2014 at 3:38 PM UTC
at age 8 i stopped wearing jeans because they were uncomfortable.
at age 14 i wore high heels, fish nets, and skirts to school and a man once asked my mother if she really let me leave the house looking like that.
i also wore checkered pajama pants and shirts with holes in them to class, i dressed up and down because everyone else seemed to dress in the middle.
i dressed however i wanted to because my mother told that guy to shut the **** up and mind his own business.
at age 16 i wore crop tops the size of sports bras and pants so tight i understood why they called them skin-ny jeans
my **** and *** would be flying all over the place,
but people with larger **** and larger bellies, people like me, weren't supposed to be wearing those sorts of things so i thought i must.
or so i thought.
at age 18 i started dressing in oversized shirts and formless dresses
i didn't believe my body needed to be objectified and put on display anymore,
i didn't need to prove that my waistline was small enough,
i didn't need to wear the spanx i wore every day at 16.
at age 20 i stopped wearing make up or a bra,
my **** sagged and eyes bagged but i wanted to show people that ***** aren't always perky even on twenty year olds.
i also stopped shaving my armpits
i thought they were cute.
at age 22 i stopped shaving my legs.
i didn't think they were cute.
but i realized not every decision i made about how i presented myself needed to be in order to make myself more beautiful.
and at age 24 i shaved my head.
a man once asked me,
as he looked at my college ring wrapping itself around my pointer finger,
if i always did things differently just to be different?
and if id always be doing things just because someone told me not to?
i should have looked at him and asked him
what has he ever been told he cannot do?
Jul 23, 2021
Jul 23, 2021 at 11:22 PM UTC
Pajama pants
milk in glass
watching clocks that don’t move fast
enough.
Leftovers
&
the same.
Microwave myself away
past the unsettling thoughts
into the very daunting forefront.
May I never sing like an angel again
For you, and no one else that cares
for more than a drink and a meaningful stare.
Apr 7, 2012
Apr 7, 2012 at 2:05 PM UTC
I've searched so long, for that phenomenon called Happiness.
So busy looking I didn't realize it was right under my nose.
Happiness is buying a stuffed dinosaur for your best friend's newborn.
It is getting to smell the scent of your favourite lip balm you thought you'd lost.
Happiness is knowing that you'll soon get a tight hug from the person you love.
Happiness is knowing that tonight you get to cuddle in your pajama after a hard workout.
Happiness is getting a text that makes you laugh so hard you cry.
Even burning your dinner so you have to start again.
Because you know you have more, that is happiness.
Happiness is singing and dancing along to corny songs thinking about the person who makes your heart flutter.
It's all about the little things, the things that make you tick.
That is the definition of happiness.
It took me so long to open my eyes, to see real happiness.
I'm glad I finally did.
Oct 29, 2018
Oct 29, 2018 at 12:11 PM UTC
“You’re single because you’re single. It’s not because you texted too much or too little or waited 33 minutes to respond because he took 23. It’s not because you met up with your ex that night at 5 a.m. that no one knows about, or because you kissed another boy after a date with a loser.
You’re not single because you spit food on that date or tripped coming out the the movie theatre. You’re not single because you hurt your first boyfriend really badly when you were 15 or because you have yet, to this day, to apologize. It’s not because you were secretly jealous when your friend got a boyfriend or that a guy you dated for two months now has a really cute girlfriend and looks really happy. And you’re happy for him. But still ill that he found someone before you.
You’re not single because you slept with your ex boyfriend. You’re not single because half the world found out when you didn’t even want to remember it yourself. You’re not single because you think the guy your friend wants to hook you up with is ugly or not tall enough. It’s not because you’re not willing to put up with someone who doesn’t brush their teeth on a regular basis.
You’re not single because your standards are too high. Good for you for having standards. It’s not because you didn’t like that really, really good guy who wanted to take you on a date and you just weren’t feeling it. And it’s not because you like to wear pajama pants as soon as you get home and wash all the makeup off your face. You’re not single because you didn’t learn enough from the past or would rather chill on a Friday night with your blanket and a cold beer than shower, get ready, and go out. You’re not single because something is wrong with you.
You are single because you are single. It’s really as simple as that. You haven’t made the connection with another heart yet. You can get dolled up, dress cute, cut your hair, dye your hair, tweeze your eyebrows, put on lipstick and you may still. be. single. You can go out to a bar hoping to meet the love of your life and not find a **** one in the place attractive. And it’s going to remain that way until it’s time for you to find one. Stop hoping for it. Start living the life that you do have instead of wishing for things that you don’t have. There will come a time you’ll meet a boy and you’ll have to give up some of this single freedom you currently have. Start being more thankful. Start doing that now.”
Mar 4, 2013
Mar 4, 2013 at 12:29 PM UTC
Bathe me in your love
with lukewarm kisses,
shampoo my hair
with your speeches,
condition with care
and let it dry on sun flare;
then
put on
my favorite pajama
and let my lips thank you
as my eyelids pull the curtains
of my mind
and I fall asleep
right
by
your
side
Feb 16, 2019
Feb 16, 2019 at 12:05 PM UTC
Do you remember the night I came
down, and you were sitting on the
windowsill? One leg up and the
other left hanging, in one of your
white oversized shirts and your
hot-pink pajama pants. Outside
the snow fell like feathers, blue
in the moonlight and black in the
shadows, with a tinge of orange
from that annoying nearby streetlight.
You looked at me, saw me in my
blue boxer briefs and teal t-shirt,
and you didn’t say a word, and
neither did I. Neither of us had
to. I sat down beside you, a mirror
image, and we stared with deafening
expressions. The snow piled on
like feathers strewn across the
room of two lovers too happy to
control themselves. I looked into
the darkness, and you glanced at
the orange sun tainting the solemn
blue hue. And then you turned away,
walked away. I stayed, watching
the snow fall in the dark.
-
by Aleksander Mielnikow
Mar 15, 2019
Mar 15, 2019 at 9:33 PM UTC
If you seek to Kindle passion,
but your mate is always cold,
You should buy a Hoodie Footie
from Pajama- gram I'm told..
The Hoodie keeps her ears warm
While the feeties warm her toes.
Toss in some wine and music
as her mood for passion grows.
Then you pull down on the zipper
that covers groin to chin
the girl is now on fire
and the romance can begin.
Except there was a problem
that derailed my new found luck.
My seduction didn't figure
on the zipper getting stuck.
Now she's ***** and unsatisfied
and feeling like she's fried
and I'm here sleeping on the couch
( at least I'm not outside)
Dec 12, 2013
Dec 12, 2013 at 9:15 PM UTC
To say that
BARAK OBAMA exists
Is a JOKE!
•
(He is not even a
Figment
Of
The imagination)
•••••••
OBAMAcare?
•
It should really be called
INSURANCE-COMPANYfuck you! **** you!
**** you!!
Till your dead!
••••••
Homeland Security
"Secures" the Homeland
In the same manner
As a LOCKDOWN
"Secures" a prison
••••••
••••••
••••••
The AMERICAN DUMMY sat on the wall
The AMERICAN DUMMY had a great fall
All the BANKERS and all CORPORATE HEADS
Gathered around to enslave all his kids
Feb 19, 2014
Feb 19, 2014 at 6:36 PM UTC
Let me start with a cliche: I love to write.
Let me edit it: I love writing
Lying on the floor
Truths in my head
Think
Of me
Baggy Pajama Pants
Mar 31, 2013
Mar 31, 2013 at 9:49 AM UTC
We were just laying there
her in front of me
my arms wrapped around, holding her tight.
It was one of those modern cushy porch swings
as comfortable as a couch.
Kissing behind her ear
that one special spot
it got her worked up real fast
she grabbed my hand and slipped it down
beyond the elastic waistband of her pajama pants.
It was so cold outside
felt like she was steamin' on the inside.
She reached around and unzipped my pants
taking it out and rubbing it against her ***
the moon giant sized, yellow, and rare
above us
as I slipped it in from behind
still laying down, her in front of me.
It was such a relief
after months of no lovin'
on account of her Christian pre-marital *** guilt.
With each ******
the swing moved more and more
just swingin'
rockin & rollin with the *** beat
we had goin.
That's when we both heard the front door of her house
slam shut.
It was her mother.
From the backyard we could see the entire house
through the numerous windows.
Her mom was a real miserable *****
from China.
She hated my guts
hated everyone
especially herself, it seemed.
She was headed straight to the backdoor
we were frozen stiff
too terrified to move
my **** just sitting inside of her
our pants around our ankles
hidden beneath the blanket draped over us.
Her mom set down her bag and was coming right for us
we were caught.
And my pecker was about to get cut off
with a Chinese sword.
Then
not two feet from the backdoor
she was about to bust us
when my girlfriend's little sister
grabbed her mother's hand
and pulled her
led her back to the other side of the house.
We scrambled to pull our pants up
pulled the blanket back over ourselves
and sat upright.
I pulled her close to me
and gave her a soft kiss,
whispering
"Holy **** That was close, huh?"
"Yeah too ******* close. Oh my God. She would've killed you Danny..."
And she kissed me again
both of us cracking up and laughing in mid-kiss.
I put my arm around her and breathed a sigh of relief.
Her mother's voice boomed into the backyard
as the door swung open, hitting the wall
"HEY! GET YOUR ARM OFF OF HER!"
Whatever you say lady.
Whatever you say.
Jan 16, 2012
Jan 16, 2012 at 12:11 PM UTC
Wind pounds at
The window
Of the new apartment
My fingers fond the weather app
Patchy fog it says,
And a high of 36.
It is clear I should stay
In bed another hour.
My red plaid pajama pants
Are far too comfy
For the fog.
Mar 25, 2015
Mar 25, 2015 at 12:34 PM UTC
I'll killa chawawa
Sell it for a dolla on Alibaba
Exchange for a Kawala
Black range red impala
Rocking nirvana pre Madonna
A Chubby monkey eating chunky monkey with ice cream and a banana
Bo bama Ina pajama spinning a spammer after a root beer slammer an alabamer and a cheese platter I slide off in a subtle manner like a salamander to empty my bladder in a place that doesn't matter
Nov 11, 2014
Nov 11, 2014 at 9:19 AM UTC
It’s cold out,
But I want to lean over the side of my bed, grab my blue flannel pajama pants from last years Christmas, And slip them up my skinny legs for a drive.
I would pass up the dim, street-lit highways to arrive at the airport.
I would leave a note on the granite counter top for ma, to explain that it was desperate times escorting my desperate measures.
I would arrive at the gate with my flannel pants, my mobile diary, and my heavy hanging shoulders with my puffy tired eyes.
I would board my plane, eat my peanuts, and since it's Thursday and Thanksgiving is a weeks past, spread myself out across the row of emptied seats.
I would get two hours of rest to wake up with frost on my side window, and the snow of Denver to keep my chilled company.
There I would board my bus for my fourtyfive minute adventure to Boulder.
Thats where we would meet, you with your Audrey Hepburn hair and perfect pearl smile,
A cup of coffee in your left hand and a cup of cocoa in your right.
Me with my flannel pajamas and oversized jacket
With nothing else to offer--except for my presence.
We wouldn’t say much
Just giggle and give some hugs in the dead of Colorado’s bitter beautiful nights,
Before heading to where you call home to cuddle and hide from the rest of winter.
Jul 8, 2012
Jul 8, 2012 at 3:23 PM UTC
You are a full moon rising.
You are a bitter cold winter morning where I have to crawl out of bed, sleepy-eyed and still in a daze, to scrape the ice off my windshield in a hurry,
My pajama pants, wet at the bottoms from the snow,that now cling to my ankles, begging me to love them.
You are the question "why?" asked over and over again on repeat until the bathwater flooding my ears drowns you out.
If you tried so hard to leave this world,
Why'd you want so badly to stay with me?
When did it start to become all about you?
Because pretending to love you out of fear was like being forced to sit and repaint a table when I had already sat and watched the paint dry.
You never could repeat back to me my favorite color until I turned it in the face.
You said I never looked good in green.
And you never understood the weight words could hold until I told you not to call again.
And you must have realized then because it's been a year and I haven't heard from you.
If I'm being truthful,
Loving you was being seven years old and coming home after a long vacation to find out your goldfish had died.
It was missing your bus and having to walk ten blocks home in the pouring rain.
Being yours was when I realized who I was and realizing that wasn't who you wanted me to be.
And most importantly, it was realizing that I was not yours after all.
I was mine.
You are a full moon rising,
But I don't howl at you anymore.
May 22, 2015
May 22, 2015 at 4:51 PM UTC
So every morning my dad fixes coffee and I drink some.
I sit at my desk,
Catching up with everything that I missed over the night.
I pick up my coffee cup,
When it gets above my upper thigh,
I have no idea what I did...
But I spilled a few drops on my lucky Thumper pajama pants.
"Dang it..."
I take a sip..
Then set the cup back down
On the cup's way to my desk..
I spill some coffee on my right foot..
"Grrr..."
I set the coffee cup down a little harder...
And it goes over on my mouse-pad.
I glare at the cup..
This cup has always been nice to me,
I don't know why it isn't now.
So about five minutes later I pick the cup back up again
And once again once it is over my thigh,
Coffee spills over in the same spot.
I take a sip, set the cup down, and look at my pants..
"My Thumper pants are going to have a coffee stain on it."
Still aggravated with my coffee and my cup,
I pick it back up again...
While the cup is in my hand is take a different route to my mouth..
It's almost to my mouth when it drops some more coffee on my pants and pajama shirt...
So here I am in my school clothes,
With left over coffee in the cup..
Afraid to drink it.
I take a sip and I don't spill anything...
I have come to this conclusion:
The coffee and the cup hated my Thumper pants and my tank top.
That was my morning, this morning.
Mar 26, 2011
Mar 26, 2011 at 7:31 PM UTC
You had beautiful eyes
not that I noticed at first
first thing I saw was your feet
worn out black running shoes shuffling down the isle
fleece pajama pants with Calgary Flames logos all over
though it was pushing 30 degrees outside
and felt as if you could squeeze warm drops of water from the air
looking up as you stopped
blue and orange plaid criss crossed a winter jacket
despite the weather
your skin was tanned, not orange
you smelled of shampoo and vanilla lotion
watching as you pulled out cherry lip gloss
ran slender fingers over your shaved head
that was when you looked up... as if you knew
I'd been staring
I thought of a thousand reactions
you gave the only one I hadn't expected
then I noticed your eyes
just as the light came thought the window
they were brown, or maybe more like honey
fragmented emeralds drifting though them
you smiled and said nothing
not that you needed too
it was one of those moment that was better without words
would have been tarnished by them
where everything stopped completely and all I could think was
...wow...
nothing else happened to disturb that second
it just stretched on
no one else moved
or made a sound
I knew then that you were one of those people
you lit rooms with a glance
the one that others were drawn to
fell in love with
even if you didn't love them back
and wrote beautiful things about
I couldnt help but smile back
you were contagious
beautiful
the train stopped
you left
I stayed
and watched
watched you watching me through the window
smiling as though you had heard my thoughts
you knew I had really seen you
I understood
I would never see you again
our meeting was chance
but all the same
for just a second
I was in love
with a beautiful stranger
Jan 17, 2014
Jan 17, 2014 at 5:02 AM UTC