breakfastatshelbys-blog

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you’re all gonna hate me but here ya go

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You think you’ve seen her naked because she took her clothes off? Tell me about her dreams. Tell me what breaks her heart. What is she passionate about, and what makes her cry? Tell me about her childhood. Better yet, tell me one story about her that you’re not in. You’ve seen her skin, and you’ve touched her body. But… you still know as much about her as a book you once found, but never got around to opening.

Anonymous (via svshii)

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As I turned over the last page, after many nights, a wave of sorrow enveloped me. Where had they all gone, these people who had seemed so real? To distract myself, I walked out into the night; instinctively, I lit a cigarette. In the dark, the cigarette glowed, like a fire lit by a survivor. But who would see this light, this small dot among the infinite stars? I stood a while in the dark, the cigarette glowing and growing small, each breath patiently destroying me. How small it was, how brief. Brief, brief, but inside me now, which the stars could never be.

Louise Glück, “A Work of Fiction” (via misswallflower)

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i tell her: there 27 bones in your hand. it’s very beautifully manufactured. good job growing it.

i don’t say: the first time you held my hand, i was grounded to this earth in a beautiful way. like ships had come home in me. like all my dreams about flying.

i don’t say: i am so grateful for the moments you held my hair back or stroked my knuckles or fixed my dress or gave me that little reassuring squeeze or walked me through a panic attack. i am grateful for every night you stayed up late texting me and every tear you brushed away and every pint of shared ice cream. i am grateful for everything.

i don’t say: i owe you sunrises. i owe you laughter. i would fight to protect your happiness with every tooth and fiber and atom of my being. i love you deep.

“you’re a nerd,” she tells me. i don’t say: i am your nerd, in your hands, in those beautiful palms. in those incredible fingers which have held me up through worse storms than i thought i could survive.

instead i say: this is my middle finger. it’s very beautifully manufactured. kindly look at it.

and she laughs and i think: thank god for you, for all that you do, for being my friend, for being you.

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Current mood: Bob Belcher saying ‘oh my god’

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How our brains make memories.

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I crave the simplest of love with you. A cold night, warm sheets, and your skin against my own. Certainly, that is all I could ever ask for.

Daniel Walsh (via lovelustquotes)

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mood: wanting sex with you

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I’m sorry for what this has been, this dirty love-making, pulling you through the mud just to see you leave a stain on something. For the teeth never knocking against each other but always grabbing ahold of something. For the tired eyes and sore throats, chipped voices, bad lines. The begging and the leaving and the coming back to leave again. I’m sorry for the poems. All the shouting I did about your mouth.

“All Those Coffee Cup Metaphors My Editor Complained About” Trista Mateer (via tristamateer)

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