MOVED >

sitting on the bus on a foggy morning and only thinking — is this, finally, my life? do i hold it with both hands? do i try to live?

the inherent romanticism of being known.

not to be all [i love you till my breathing stops i love you till you call the cops on me] [it’s rotten work not to me not if it’s you] [i can take care of myself just fine. no. what do you mean no? no] [one word from you and i would jump off of this ledge i’m on baby] [i will do anything whatever she wants] [is that too much to expect? that i would name the stars for you?] [you want to die for love you always have] [love for you is not like the usual romantic love. it’s like a religion. it’s terrifying] but i want a love full of devotion

the sexual tension between me and my 15 half-written poems in my notes app