"I love you. Did you hear what I said there? I love you. Yeah? I fucking love you."
'I’m not the same everyday. There are times where I’m loud and chatty, and there are times when I’m really quiet. I don’t think I can define myself.'



Pros and cons of boys:

  • Con: They’re dicks
  • Pro: Their dicks


dont be embarrassed about something u enjoy ok 


can we fu-fu-f- can i have a picture with you?


I’m meeting boys who like Charles Bukowski and they all want to do brutal things to my body. They tell me they buy a bottle of whiskey whenever they get one of his books and don’t stop reading till they’ve gone through a pack of cigarettes. They blow smoke in my face and say, “He was the outcast king of L.A. Did you know that, huh?” “Yeah, yeah, I know.” I say,“He’s great.”

A new boy gives me a worn copy of On the Road and thinks he’s being original. “We should explore the road together. Would you like that, baby?” I take a sip of my water and look away. Yes, I’d like that, I think. But he’s drunk and imagining himself sixty years earlier, in the back of a bar, sweating to the sound of live bop. Still, I prefer him to the hungry boy that devoured my shirt and said, “You have a tattoo? What’s it say?” ‘mad to live?’ What, are you angry about living? Aw, I’m just kidding, come here, let me take off that bra.”

The next boy I kiss doesn’t read. I ask him to come to a bookstore with me and he stays outside, sighing. He has no interest in words. He has no interest in me. I am thankful for him. For a few weeks, I am able to shed my habit of thinking obsessively and become a duller, rougher version of myself. I dump him when my fingers start turning imaginary pages in my sleep.

I go on a date with a boy who knows I like to write. He calls himself a fan of mine and swears he’s read every word I’ve put down. “You’ve got this voice that’s very modern, but also so classic.” I choke on my water as he says, “I read you to fall asleep.” At night, I listen to him pant metaphors and compare my mouth to the sea. One day, he stumbles across my journal and finds nothing about himself in it. “You don’t really love me, do you?” I shake my head. There is no use pretending anymore. He has read my poems about the boys I want to drown in me. His goodbye leaves my hands covers in ink. He wanted me so badly to be the sea, when all I am is a girl who writes poetry.

I try my best to become poetry. I take a bath and stain the water with black ink. I cut my hair in a motel sink. I cry for people I have never met. I start smoking cigarettes. I use words like “presumptuously” and talk about “post-modernist new wave.” I walk the streets at 4 a.m. and smile at people coming home from a rave. I wear sunglasses indoors. I carry a 500 page volume of poems wherever I go. I drink coffee instead of water. I talk about the “advantages of using film and listening to records.” But no matter how hard I try, I am not the sea. I am a sunken ship that has drowned in everyone who touched me.

I Am Not The Sea | Lora Mathis (via soggypoetry)
'You laugh and I can’t breathe.'
— Six Word Story #30 by absentions (via perfect)



this is so fucking relevant wow

yeah it is ^


r u a sofa bc ur sofaking annoying


r u from europe because europiece of shit

'my thoughts
are tangled threads
and every single one
leads to
— notes on table napkins; Alahna Sy (via fauxpoet)



I haven’t told my best friend
about all the boys I’ve slept with
or how much her boyfriend bothers me
and I think she deserves so much better than him
and she doesn’t know that my scars aren’t fading
but growing
she doesn’t know I went to the hospital because I stopped…


I don’t like the face you use to flirt
and I don’t like that you’ll stay up late for him
and not for me 


You will die as the person who hit rock bottom and will never be able to meet your other self, who, in a parallel universe, decided to stay. You will die as the person who got sucked into the black hole and decided it was too hard to crawl up its edges and tumble back out…