otomuragakuya:

a sentence
will always look
like poetry

if you
hit enter
a lot

Growing up, I was always told that sex was an extremely intimate and special act between two people.

But I don’t think it’s the physical act of having another person inside you that is so intimate. I think it’s rather in the way you see their secret responses to pleasure. The way he can see your teeth involuntary sink into your bottom lip, or the way your eyes moisten with satisfaction.

And then, after it’s all over, and he wants you no longer, you have to walk by him  with a regained composure. You say a polite hello, smile, and pretend you don’t remember the way he’d draw circles on your arm afterwards, or rub his fingers through your hair, or brush his lips against your throat.

I don’t know. Maybe sex is an intimate thing.

I’m sick of people saying they are ”tired”.

We are all fucking tired. Tired of the fingers that circumnavigate black numbers. Tired of murdering those hours; those days that envelop us before a daze sends us on our way. 

So feign some energy — force a smile. Still lethargic, but happy.

I think I “fall in lust” because it’s something to do; something to feel. But I don’t want to anymore. It type of hurts.

My head is in the gutter

with the dirt and dust.

I’m trying to stay afloat but

drowning in the muddy puddles

postmaker:

bebroom:

does anyone have any good tips for getting over boys

how tall are the boys?

I think the phrase YOLO has become synonymous with I don’t give a shit anymore rather than ‘you only live once’.

I’ve felt changes in the past six months. I’ve been trying to think what it may be that has made me revert into the self-loathing that was present earlier in my adolescence.

I think it may be my lack of writing. When I form words, there’s a hunger satisfied. Right now, the only thing I feed off is a thread of damaging thoughts and guilty memories. It’s time to write again. It’s time to be right again.

In the words of that great sex god: I’ll be back.

(Source: Spotify)