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apaixonado por homens maduros gordos
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You, my big blue bucket of gold, are the reason my teeth have started to rot. Heartbreaking whispers coming from folded lips never bring me enough comfort in the nighttime. Please let me be enough, tomorrow I will spit out my molars and dedicate them to you.
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writing more. feeling less. lovesick
full of word vomit in a spinning room
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I am not religious and yet lately I’ve been asking God for forgiveness. Surely I must’ve done something wrong to be dealt these cards. A weak hand for the miserable nonbeliever.
How is one expected to seek out guidance from the creator of lifes problems. Blindly putting my faith into someone else’s hands has never done me any good so why am I here, next in line, waiting to be saved?
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For the women who want to read faster, the girls figuring out how to breathe deeper. The women that hide bloody smiles behind cracked palms, women who swear they feel thunder strike through their bones. When all you could do was sit alone in your room and cry because somehow, placing your faith in a merciless God always came easier to those around you. For the long nights when you’d become someones mother while you still longed for your own. To the women who drink wine until their teeth are red, until they prune and wrinkle; the girls who crawl in her fathers bed hoping that he’d come home one last time. The moments when you contemplated selling your virginity to the cause of mourning, wondering if that would finally be enough. For the divine dreamers and her feline counterparts, because what is a girl without her best friend. To the shared feminine experience of making your date uncomfortable by allowing yourself to take up all of the space in a room. Never hang your stars too low, and never shut your eyes too soon. There is only so much you can take before it all becomes too much.
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Imitation of cinema, 1959 - by Leo Dohmen (1929 - 1999), Belgian
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