life-is-a-very-big-joke:

-

I don’t mind getting naked or seeing you naked.
I don’t mind talking about sex or having sex
or never having sex. I don’t mind my body
or your body with mine. I don’t mind
your sweaty palms, your chapped lips,
your dirty tongue. I don’t mind
your noisy music, your crappy poetry,
your soiled shoes and ugly handwriting.
I don’t mind 2ams and late night
phone calls, stolen kisses and white lies.
I don’t mind your half-eaten donut,
frozen teabags and sticky hair.
I want your toothbrush’s head
leaning towards mine. I want
your 4am back massage.
Cup my breasts and don’t say
they’re small. I already know that.
Kiss me once and kiss me more.
Pretend what we’re doing is illegal.
It’s always good to be caught
with our mouths tied together
like handcuffs. Dry your cheeks
and make me bleed.
Crave me.
Crave me.
Crave me.


Mild sexual love blog ♥
suicidal-monsterr:

•Depression/Advice Blog•

suicidal-monsterr:

•Depression/Advice Blog•

(via blacktears-redwrists)

When I first met you, I felt a kind of contradiction in you. You’re seeking something, but at the same time, you are running away for all you’re worth.

Haruki Murakami (via perfect)

(Source: durianquotes, via thinly)

There were things I wanted to tell him. But I knew they would hurt him. So I buried them, and let them hurt me.

Jonathan Safran Foer, Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close (via c-oquetry)

(Source: larmoyante, via thinly)

Reblog if you say “fuck” more than 5 times a day.

It’s not that I don’t love you. It’s the sound I heard when I was 9 and my father slammed the front door so hard behind him I swear to god it shook the whole house. For the next 3 years I watched my mother break her teeth on vodka bottles. I think she stopped breathing when he left. I think part of her died. I think he took her heart with him when he walked out. Her chest is empty, just a shattered mess or cracked ribs and depression pills.

It’s not that I don’t love you. It’s all the blood in the sink. It’s the night that I spent 12 hours in the emergency room waiting to see if my sister was going to be okay, after the boy she loved, told her he didn’t love her anymore. It’s the crying, and the fluorescent lights, and white sneakers and pale faces and shaky breaths and blood. So much blood.

It’s not that I don’t love you. It’s the time that I had to stay up for two days straight with my best friend while she cried and shrieked and threw up on my bedroom floor because her boyfriend fucked his ex. I swear to god she still has tear streaks stained onto her cheeks. I think when you love someone, it never really goes away.

It’s not that I don’t love you. It’s the six weeks we had a substitute in English because our teacher was getting divorced and couldn’t handle getting out of bed. When she came back she was smiling. But her hands shook so hard when she held her coffee, you could see that something was broken inside. And sometimes when things break, you can’t fix them. Nothing ever goes back to how it was. I got an A in English that year. I think her head was always spinning too hard to read any essays.

It’s not that I don’t love you. It’s that I do.

It’s not that I don’t love you.  (via extrasad)

(via thinly)

(via thinly)