(no subject)
What do you write about, at home at night, after we fuck? Do you write at all? What do you write about, poet- fucker? I wrote you a note but too ashamed to leave it I took it. Words leave so much to the imagination. What I should have done was just write it simply. I like you. Is it obvious? Do you care?
You give me nothing to write about but myself and that’s why I don’t like you. It is a hard lesson to learn that not everyone will give me something. I don’t like it at all.
Did I bleed on you? Why didn’t you come? Was it because of the same reason as me?
I want to write again. I miss writing my emotions out into pretty little packages. Can you critique me?
Fuck Why do I want to call you write now? WHY?! Because of the stupid shit we did or because of the shit I did? Like calling you will make me feel better? It’s a bad habit that I just want to discuss things.
I am just confused. Am I just a booty call now or can it go somewhere? I seriously hope you are just fucking asleep right now and it’s just me fucking left awake, wondering again. It was like he was throwing threads out there but just threads.
You know what I don’t like? The not talking after sex. I miss it so much.
Scars to scars
I see what we
loved. A cover for
our old wounds.
With open arms;
veins to veins
in love. I learn
slowly.
What is a hangover? A lesson our bodies try to teach us, a punishment for over-indulgence.
I spent last night dreaming small dreams about Sean B. :( Visiting him at his new job, he runs past us with a look of determination and anger. He's chasing a killer and we are so impressed we clap. Talking to him about how happy we are and how much fun it was to move to London because we just decided to rush it and do it.
There was a small window of closeness, petting his head. He pretty much tried to force his hand through my pants.
I broke my blue alien skull mask today and I cried before work.
You give me nothing to write about but myself and that’s why I don’t like you. It is a hard lesson to learn that not everyone will give me something. I don’t like it at all.
Did I bleed on you? Why didn’t you come? Was it because of the same reason as me?
I want to write again. I miss writing my emotions out into pretty little packages. Can you critique me?
Fuck Why do I want to call you write now? WHY?! Because of the stupid shit we did or because of the shit I did? Like calling you will make me feel better? It’s a bad habit that I just want to discuss things.
I am just confused. Am I just a booty call now or can it go somewhere? I seriously hope you are just fucking asleep right now and it’s just me fucking left awake, wondering again. It was like he was throwing threads out there but just threads.
You know what I don’t like? The not talking after sex. I miss it so much.
Scars to scars
I see what we
loved. A cover for
our old wounds.
With open arms;
veins to veins
in love. I learn
slowly.
What is a hangover? A lesson our bodies try to teach us, a punishment for over-indulgence.
I spent last night dreaming small dreams about Sean B. :( Visiting him at his new job, he runs past us with a look of determination and anger. He's chasing a killer and we are so impressed we clap. Talking to him about how happy we are and how much fun it was to move to London because we just decided to rush it and do it.
There was a small window of closeness, petting his head. He pretty much tried to force his hand through my pants.
I broke my blue alien skull mask today and I cried before work.