when she says she doesn’t send nudes

when guys objectify women and expect them to send nudes

when someone asks you about your nuclear plans for russia

When Russia sends you nudes

He doesn’t like to cuddle. He likes to grip my hips and pull the fibers of pink tissue in shreds from my lip with his teeth. He throws his hands in the air like a messiah and leans his head out the open window. easy. breathe. codeine. breeze. We laugh loudly and kiss loudly and moan loudly. He mouths vulgar things that make me giggle in front of our friends. I run my hand along the seam off his tight black jeans beneath the table top. He rolls his eyes and smirks at me. We take every opportunity to touch, to feel, so secretly. So public. Exhibitionist pleasure. We play like children, tousling my hair and I climb on his back. We roll spliff after spliff and talk rapidly and vigorously and trip over each others sentences like a sidewalk crack. He says “us” like it means “amen” and his eyes burn wild with a fire of passion. We get drunk. Off of wine and skin and things we love. His smile erupts across his face like it could shatter his cheekbone. His eyes glimmer like a lake catching the glare of the moonlight. A glint of silver is growing up the side of his hairline. He thinks it makes him look distinguished. I laugh and agree. He loves to be so much older than me. He thinks it makes him wise. We spend a lot of time in hotel rooms with the doors shut. (We spend a lot of time outside of hotel rooms with our mouths shut.) He thinks the Xanax makes the sex last longer and I don’t argue. I always wake up first. I sit at the desk and work quietly and glance at him in the sheets. Vulnerable and quiet. Soft face. Soft sounds. A warm cup of coffee and marmalade light through the windows. We bond over love for our brothers. We fight over where the chord change should go. We tease, oh we tease. He likes clean socks and messy hair and he runs his fingers down my overall straps with a tigers grin. He writes his name in the fog on the mirror from where he grabbed a fistful of my hair and pressed my face against the glass. He loves soul music. We sing confidently and triumphantly. I tap my fingers like spiders legs across his bare chest and undo his buttons one by one. I toss my head back and laugh maniacally and pout my lips when he won’t be fair. He speaks like a pastor and trips over his words, his tongue struggles to meet his brain. That’s how a prodigy thinks. (Or it’s the drugs). He knows when my words are about him and he lets it all go to his head and I don’t care because I love to watch him love himself. We laugh and fuck and play and write and plot and say goodbye and never worry. He is my occasional constant. A parody of himself. A paradox of ever present and transparent. I don’t care what he is.

You’re going to spend your nights searching for what we had in empty bottles and mouthes of strangers but you will never find it. Because no one will love you like I did. Not even me.

She’s like an earthquake, you don’t see her coming, but if she’s strong enough, she’ll tear everything apart, and if she’s mad enough, she’ll kill you and everything you ever knew.

Always appreciate those who try to make you laugh after a bad day or when you feel disheartened and worthless.

He may still love you. He probably does. He probably doesn’t know what he wants. He probably still thinks about you all the time. But that isn’t what matters. What matters is what he’s doing about it, and what he’s doing about it is nothing. And if he’s doing nothing, you most certainly shouldn’t do anything. You need someone who goes out of their way to make it obvious that they want you in their life.

my dad told us this if someone shoots up our school

This is what school children in America are taught. That is so wrong on so many fucking levels and there are still people who believe gun control in any form is a bad thing.

the bit in caps here is making me rethink my stance on gun control 

I never told you that you helped me grow into myself. And not in the way I was afraid of, you didn’t place my vines the way you wanted me to grow. You let me grow freely, and I will forever be grateful for you.

It’s always romantic in the beginning and traumatic when it ends. But what truly matters is what happens in between.

The earth is pounding with rain and the lightning continues to strike my heart with fear. Every drop leaves an indefinite sound. Drip.Drip.Drip. The windshield wipers seem to take a huge lost while the sobbing of the sky continues to defeat them. We go underneath a bridge and for a split second everything stops…and then it all comes back again, pounding alittle harder than before.