Flowers of Her Mind @herflowersneededwatered - Tumblr Blog

The black sweater and the high-waisted,

button fly,

jeans that were her mother’s clung to her body,

keeping her warm.

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She knew damn well she needed to get some air under her wings.

It’s dead in this malt shop.

I want to feel your hands and your leather-covered arms against my legs,

my hips under my Poodle skirt while I lean against this old record machine.

Bury me in my sweater with my books,

my stories,

my photographs.

Leave my lips crimson for my darling to kiss one last time.

Coffee is married to poetry.

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She escapes with words.

My heart swells with every heart and reblog. From the bottom of the bleeding crimson, thank you.

Hold my wine. The air is trying to be smokier than me.

When you can't get the former distractions out of your head...the void-filling distractions.

Be more intentional with having your tits out. That'll fix ya.

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Our blanket keeps our secrets safe from the eyes of the public,

but you bring temptation upon my vocal cords.

They want to expose what you do to me.

My pearly whites want to bite right through you,

you forbidden apple.

Let us make love on top of Whitesnake’s car hood.

Life will then be fulfilled won’t it,

darling?

Let's listen to the warning cries of the siren cascading through the woods.

We should hide our skin,

bones and love underneath your covers and create sounds to go against the rain and thunder.

My veins love you.

For giving them coffee,

for fingertip-traces,

for lip prints,

for their carnival ride,

for your existence.

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She faintly remembered her solo ventures to the lighthouses she would write poetry at, but still tasted the nicotine she inhaled against her loved ones’ wishes.

She could feel his eyes on her and her little, black dress on the way out.

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