Maybe the wolf is in love with the moon, and each month it cries for a love it will never touch.
my first thought this morning was “count olaf should have been more thoroughly checked by social services”
I keep writing about sex. I think, I mean—
all I want is the after of it, after you took my
skirt off with your teeth, after I was so clumsy
with the buttons on your shirt that I ripped
them open because I was so fucking frustrated
and they bounced around my feet like pearls,
rolled under the bed. You thought it was sexy
and fucked me against the wall with my bra
still on. I felt like a queen. Saw, in the unforgiving
morning light, where your mouth had been. And
your nails. Your sweat. Now all I want is tenderness.
I hold eggs in my hand at the grocery store,
check them for cracks and leaks. I try to do the
same to myself. When I go to restaurants I stay
for hours, ordering nothing except wine and tracing
my finger around the glass rim until it sings. When
you said, Your skin is holding you in nicely, I cried.
So now you know. Don’t leave.
I will wear what I want.
I will get tattoos if I want.
I will wear makeup if I want.
I will dye my hair if I want.
I will pierce whatever I want.
I will shave what I want.
I will lose weight if I want.
I will gain weight if I want.
I will have sex if I want.
I do not care if you are my mortal enemy, if you ask me to do a period check on your behind to make sure your pants are still good i got your back dude
One of the great flaws that we all share is that we think everyone else is cooler, everyone else is sexier; everyone else has all the answers. That was me too.