theshadowkissedgirl

i'll paint my lips purple to match the stain you slathered across my skin. hey, this is my canvas.

I wish my father had just agreed to wear a damn condom.

I will teach these lips the art of a Venus flytrap.

I will teach these lips the art of a Venus flytrap.

my hands are pacing, driven wild by these tantalizing fantasies of vibrant boulevards my fingertips could discover upon crossing the bend of your collarbone.

Another fleeting friendship is another flick of this cigarette, useless sparks dying in the wind, and yet I still keep puffing it.

I want to sit on your porch and tremble at the simple thought of your swift arrival.

Telling you my grandma and mom were both raped led to me sneaking out to your house 'cause I was next in line and that's how I knew we were some sick kids.

I'm memorizing your knuckles again screaming silently to a god that does not exist to never dare let this end. The silk of your skin sends my senses cascading in shivers and I lose grip. You sleep in peace as dusk slips quickly through my fingers that you do not squeeze.

Pieces of me are scattered across the city, sleeping on storm drains, kissing their feet, but I am unseen. I giggle, "Hey, look. Those are my initials." I point and recite, "M. E. S." and the rise of his brow whispers that he will never be able to strip the memory of me from these streets. I smile and we take a step and another and another. Rain drips down the drain and washes away my footprints but my initials remain. I am gone.

I used to have a pretty glittering white house until a mudslide splattered it with hideous lines of sorrow and loss. He was the first to walk by and notice with a smooth "Hey" and a glossy "What the heck happened to your home?" with fingers brushing softly against the cracks. His compassion begged to help me repair it but I reassured him that someone else was coming. That someone showed his existence even less than the cicadas deep in the soil that year. I never had to ask the man for his assistance. Instead, I came home to find him sweating and screwing things, panting and painting things, every afternoon. When our eyes met for the first ti

in that one moment, i wanted to stand up and hit him: i wanted to make him hurt, make him bleed, make him feel what he did to me. make him feel his lies and deceit, push it into his skin like a knife and letting the scarlet lies pour out for everyone to see. every little lie, every "mia bella" came back to haunt me. every word that idly dripped out of his mouth that caressed and cared for me turned black and shriveled like a dead flower. because every time he kissed me, he lied. i can't believe i just let him string me along like that. he just turned me into some sort of flesh-and-blood puppet, tossed me around and stepped on me like garba

For two hundred and eighty four days, I woke up. I woke up with this bone-deep ache that never went away. I woke up to an incessant question playing in my mind that would never be answered. I woke up alone. For two hundred and eighty four days, I woke up without you when I woke up at all. The thing about time is that it never does make anything better. It just means more space to think. It means sleepless nights trying to figure it all out. When it went wrong. How to make it better. It means slowly losing my mind. But it never once meant getting over you. It's funny how the things you think you've forgotten always come rushing back when you