“you’re Like An Angel, Nothing Touches You.”

“You are not real. You are a dream of a dream.”

— Henry Miller, from Dear, Dear Brenda: The Love Letters Of Henry Miller to Brenda Venus (via violentwavesofemotion)

classycreeps

4:02am. we were always doomed weren’t we? on the drive home, listening to bottlemen and waiting for you to kiss me. you and me, always heading for a dead end we knew was just around the corner.

I lean my head back onto the passenger seat whilst your hands grip the steering wheel, close my eyes and imagine you above me spilling your soul onto my lips. waiting for you to pull over and kiss me. always waiting, waiting.

cheap wine doesn’t quite taste the same without you. and when you lean in, I taste it all on your breath. the sweet clouds of alcohol and teen romance and the inevitable loss that’ll come from this. a backseat romance that won’t survive the crash.

lips so hungry and dripping with want. can you feel the way my body pleads for your hands? can you feel the way my lips grow more desperate for you? can you feel my skin growing hot under your touch, like the friction of the tires as the car swerves and crashes into the end of a one-way street?

bottlemen doesn’t quite sound the same without you anymore and mostly, out of all the pain you caused me, I hate that you’ve made me hate my favourite band.

kissing you and laughing with you and holding you reminds me that happiness is possible, that happiness is here and that it is here to stay. how wonderful it is to come home to you. how wonderful it is to call you mine, my love. every cell, every inch, every curve of you calls me like the sea. I’ll happily drown in all that you are. happily burn in the sunlight in your eyes. I’m obsessed with all that you are. the chocolate chip cookie grin, the curve of your Adam’s apple, the scent of your skin.

so this is what lovers mean when they say they fall in love with their person more and more everyday. this is what falling feels like.

trigger warning: self harm

it’s been a year since I last hurt myself, an addiction that took all my willpower to overcome. I know I can fashion words into something beautiful but there was nothing pretty about all that self-hatred, all that anger, loss and pain. all that pain coiled in my stomach, gnawing at me from the inside. there was absolutely nothing beautiful about scarring a body that works so hard to keep going. I can’t make this beautiful or romantic or wistful. but it’s over now. I can breathe. I just want to let that fact be.

he makes me laugh, head thrown back and eyes alive with happiness. he asks me to come closer when we sleep together, squeezes my hips and grins. he tells me I look beautiful in a black dress and heels with my hair messy and tangled but says he knows I’d look beautiful in anything anyway. he kisses my neck and my thighs and my hands and says “baby, you’re the most lovely thing my body has ever loved”. touches me in a way that makes me think, god even the sun hasn’t spilled her light on me like this.

I can’t tell you what it feels like, to have a boy blush when I kiss him, no memorised pick up lines, sauve attitude or cocky mannerisms. he’s so honest, so raw and passionate. so in love. so in love with me.

I used to think love was this anxiety-inducing dance for two, where everything had to be absolutely perfect. where things are painful and frustrating. where I have to chase and beg and call and entertain and cry and lose. always lose. but he’s right here now, sleeping on my shoulder. soft and sweet, with his arms around me.

and I think he’s going to stay.

I’ve been thinking about you. I think you know. We both dance around what-shouldn’t-unfold.