the universe.

I found the most delicate boy, who steals looks when the thinks I don’t notice. And, oh, he’s going to ruin me. He really is. I already know it. He watches like he’s afraid to want me and I watch like I’m afraid to be wrong. I am cataloging every look, every sideways glance, every shy smile that has us both looking at our laps. My chest feels heavy. My hands are too warm to keep all to myself and I’m burning up. Like an ancient sun. And I want him. And it’s going to ruin me. I just know it.

I think one of my favorite feelings is laughing with someone and realizing half way through how much you enjoy them and their existence.

I open my mouth. I want to say: I’m breaking, and I need someone to hold me together. But no sound comes out.

You’re not in love. You’re not in love because being in love with him is dangerous and stupid and reckless. You’re not in love because that’s not what you do, or who you are. You’re not in love but, sometimes, he fucking smiles at you just like that and you realize that you don’t see him smiling enough but every time you do it’s like the clouds are parting and making way for the sun and you’ve never seen anything so fucking beautiful in your entire life. You’re not in love and you don’t tell him that but, sometimes, it must show anyway because he reaches out for you without thinking twice about the weight of his hand on your arm and without fear that you’ll pull away. You’re not in love. (That never fooled him anyway.)

I want to be loved and to be left alone.

I hardly say what I feel.

dear cousin (pleaseeee)

they call her fighter, because she is bloody knuckles and gritted teeth. they call her dreamer, because she is starry eyes and birthday wishes. they call her brave, because she is tear-stained pillows and sunshine smiles. they call her strong, because she is mosaic heart and earth-shattering heartbeat. they call her fierce, because she is scorched palms and wolf howl. they call her beautiful, because she is, oh god, she is.