#*  meme.

a kiss on the top of the head.

a kiss to hair.

a kiss on the forehead.

a kiss on the space between eyebrows.

a kiss on the temple.

a kiss on the cheek.

a kiss on the eyelid or the undereye.

a kiss on the nose

a kiss on the ear.

a kiss on that space where jaw connects.

a kiss on the corner of the mouth.

a kiss on the cupid’s bow.

a kiss on the lips.

a kiss on the chin.

a kiss on the jawline.

a kiss on the back of the neck.

a kiss on the underside of the jaw.

a kiss on the throat.

a kiss on the side of the neck.

a kiss on where the back of the neck turns to shoulder.

a kiss above the collarbone.

a kiss along the collarbone.

a kiss on the space between collarbones.

a kiss on the shoulder.

a kiss on the bicep.

a kiss on the forearm.

a kiss on the elbow.

a kiss on the outside of the wrist.

a kiss on the inside of the wrist.

a kiss on the back of the hand.

a kiss on the palm.

a kiss on a finger.  ( which one? )

a kiss on the side of the ribs.

a kiss on the shoulder blade.

a kiss on the space between shoulder blades.

a kiss along the curve of the spine.

a kiss on the upper back.

a kiss on the lower back.

a kiss on the sternum.

a kiss on a pec / breast.

a kiss under the breast.

a kiss on where the sternum ends.

a kiss on the stomach.

a kiss on the navel.

a kiss on the hipbone.

a kiss on the ‘v’.

a kiss on the front of the thigh.

a kiss on the back of the thigh.

a kiss on the inner thigh.

a kiss on the knee.

a kiss on the calf.

a kiss on the ankle.

a kiss on the heel.

a kiss on the foot.

a kiss on a toe.

a kiss on an nsfw body part not listed here.  ( where? )

                            “𝔢𝔳𝔢𝔯𝔶𝔬𝔫𝔢 𝔢𝔩𝔰𝔢 𝔦𝔰 𝔪𝔬𝔯𝔢 𝔦𝔪𝔭𝔬𝔯𝔱𝔞𝔫𝔱 𝔱𝔥𝔞𝔫 𝔪𝔢."

you're deathly afraid of being selfish. you're also deathly afraid of being forgotten. all you want is to be somebody's favorite person, but that feels like a far off dream. you try and make yourself interesting so that people stick around you. it doesn't feel like that's working. you want to hang out more with your friends, but it seems like they're always busy or that they have better friends than you.

Quotes sourced from his chapbook Bloodsport, excerpts of Slaughterhouse, and other poetry published online or on his tumblr. Some minor grammar changes and word omissions were made to adapt the quotes into sentences for this meme.

Tell me about love.

I knew I couldn’t keep you from the start. 

Look how the desert is always reaching outwards. Only something so vast and arid could understand a hunger like mine. 

I have always understood why vultures mate for life. 

You can’t live among a sickness without starting to become it.

There is a quiet kind of dying in always waiting for death.

I was a dangerous thing—an injured animal still hunting.

I am tired of loving you. I am tired of grasping grief like a root in the stumbling dark.

My body is becoming a catalogue of bite marks and bruising.

If longing were a garden in Tartarus, all the flowers would be burning.

Listen and come kiss the long night naked into day.

Time was a dying thing in our hands and grief was eating all that I’d let it.

In seven years you won’t remember how this story went and I won’t be there to remind you. In seven years, the hands I held won’t exist anymore.

You are taping over all your memories; replacing every cell in your body out of carelessness.

You could almost be forgiven for not knowing my name anymore. 

So, this is who I would be if you didn’t have me pinned down. 

I’ve started thinking of people as wounds that don’t heal.

You forget, I’ve watched you split my heart open like a pomegranate and carve the seeds out with your bare hands—nails stained the same colour of the sky as the sun sets in Rome.

If there’s ever blood on your hands again, I want it to be mine.

How do you live with a guilt so large it’s like the moon is hanging over your head, just waiting for a moment to fall that could devastate the world?

How do you touch a lover who can’t even say your name?

I had a body that felt everything and we couldn’t talk about it, so I pretended I didn’t have a body and that I couldn’t feel anything.

I don’t want to be the one putting holes in things anymore.

Imagine that. The distance between us a landscape that learned to paint itself, and now it can’t stop its hands from moving.

But I couldn’t talk to you even if I could talk about it.

I couldn’t stand for you to know me, to feel how tight this skin stretches over the sharp corners of my skeleton.

You said forever, but I can only count so high. 

I’m still waiting to find out if I can carry a violet sun inside me.

And it wasn’t supposed to be like this, but now this is all you have.

You wanted to love him in a way that didn’t hurt and now you know that isn’t love at all. Sometimes, you still want it.

Meanwhile, all the blue in the world is burning, even if you won’t look at it.

Who are you now that my name no longer shakes holes in your mouth?

I could never write about love until I forgot how the letters tasted.

Don’t you sometimes want the sky to just open up above you?

Aren’t you sick of being kindling and not burning?

God, doesn’t anyone know how to feel anymore?

No one in the theatre, but we still play our parts like the whole world is watching.

I’m talking about the first time you kissed me my whole body a crime scene.

Let's run. Let's keep running. Let's swallow so much blue our mouths become skies become oceans.

Hold on to whatever of me is easiest, like my hands or this thing in my chest that can't stop talking about you.

Said your name and it said something back. We can call that love, if you want. Always speaking back.

We promised we could be good like that again. Said, No one has to die this time.

I wanted to keep just one thing safe, like this poem, but death always creeps in anyway.

We could run so fast because nothing was chasing us. Nothing could catch us. Not blood. Not war. Not other boys.

Say my name. Now, say something gentler.

Let's run. Let's keep running. Let's swallow so much red that our mouths become escape. So much red that our mouths become made of doing what you must; bodies made of doing what you can to survive.

That love is both the wound and what is used to make it.

It doesn’t matter what kills you just that something does.

You can have anything you want as long as you pretend that a weapon could be something other than what it was or do anything other than for what it was made.

And isn’t that love after all? Isn’t it what we were thought was worth dying for?

Each body sings its own song of agony: a memory of the myth that what cruelty puts into you, it must somehow take out again.​

In the end I took it all with my mouth undone and my head tipped back.

But violence like trauma is always wider on the other side.