Kissing You And Laughing With You And Holding You Reminds Me That Happiness Is Possible, That Happiness

you move & the wind moves with you, something honey, something bruised— in the way you chew on your bottom lip. nervous habit; delayed reaction. how in summer the world feels like a mirage of itself. hands that chain themselves to anything that refuses to let go: a leech, or brown muck. your teeth (grazing) the inside of my elbow. something damn frustrating about the way you give yourself up (to anything that’s foolish enough to take you) i.e the sea, the coast, where your shoulders meet, the leylines of your veins. & picture me humbly, please. picture me in evenings & earthly tones, only. & do not hold your breath when i go, slip. out the back door—silhouetted feline; precipitous, or better yet. picture (you), standing barefoot in the tall grass, picture the curve of your neck in malnourished light, & a puncture wound, in the now negative (space) you found me in: a flower bed emptied; the sun bleached out. — oh all i ever wanted / was a life in your shape // mitski

borrowed time, green eyes and sunshine. oh how these river currents move like your body on top of mine. like the quiet disappointment of your wandering eye. how i could live, die and breathe in this moment, experience eighty years of heaven and hell with you. the sun on my skin feels like a kiss. steady, lover. stay with me through the summer.

Complacency masked by the gentle glove of understanding,

(my friends always did say I was too accommodating).

And you- this poor, poor boy who was caught in the middle of a drama.

(You call it a drama, I call it the thing that makes me feel unsafe in my own skin)

“You cannot expect me to throw away 5 years of friendship”

I said okay, okay.

I did not want the assault to take away my friendships after it took

The deep appreciation I used to have for this body

My smile

My life.

But today I saw you give the man that raped me a big hug. 

You know- those big i-missed-you man hugs?

I felt the anger tear across my palms, two fists ready to meet the drywall. 

How could you. 

You know what he did.

You know what he took from me.

And I realise you didn’t care.

Because it was not your body he turned inside out. 

It was not your tongue he ripped from your throat. 

You give him a hug full of familiarity and love. 

I don't want to forgive you. 

I don’t want to pretend it’s all alright.

I won’t roll over and accept it this time.

my hair was wet and tangled, my clothes stuck to me like a second skin. your hands were reaching for me, desperate and frantic. but we’re laughing and splashing. you had dared me to jump into the lake and I had said, yes I’ll do it even if I can’t swim. what’s youth without a little death anyway? what’s life if we don’t test it’s limits? the lake was so cold but I loved feeling your body pull me from it. I loved knowing you’d always save me. I coughed and spluttered in between the giggles, shivering and shocked. you ask me if it hurts. it still does, my brown eyed boy. it still does.

and I think it always will.

summer in the city drenches everything in this unbearable sticky heat,

I am here in bed,

thinking about my blue eyed boy:

the sunlight washing over anything,

a daydream in reality,

all this harshness dipped in gold.

isn’t life just misery. and mortality. and suffering.

isn’t this mangled body so tired of dragging itself forward,

waiting for the next trauma to almost-cripple it.

but like the sunlight my blue eyed boy pours his warmth over everything,

my own pocket of the galaxy,

and his sun rays touch me like nothing else has ever touched me before.

summer sticks to him,

summer sticks to me.

and all this sweaty passion is

so strong I feel it from the other side of the universe.

calling your lover "my lover" is the most TENDER and SOFT and HOMOEROTIC thing you can call them and we should do that more often as a society

“Sure I loved him - too much. And he loved me, only not enough. I just want someone who thinks I’m number one in his life. I’m not willing to accept emotional scraps anymore.”

— Amy Tan (via purplebuddhaquotes)

a love letter as a hug, as your head in my lap, as the romance of room 56, with the lights turned off. there have been so many nights i wished i was crawling into bed beside you, so many late night library sessions where i wished you were across me, eyes glued to your laptop, days where i wished i was reaching across the mattress to rest against your tenderness, the sweet softness of you.