all of the lipsticks i own.

this is me in 2 tweets. boooooooooooooooom.

— Sylvia Plath, The Unabridged Journals.  (via brutalite)

(Source: larmoyante, via fleecehoodie)

the summer we forgot to breathe

cereal in a bowl, milk in the glass
beside one another we shared
like warm cigarettes on a brisk night,
     fancy perfumes to mask the scent
and to take the off the years we knew
   we were bound to gain.
we were there.
connecticut country homes
    teenaged gatsbian fantasies
red solo cups in trunks, sharpie on arms
     like bruises in the morning—-they
     couldn’t know
we were fulfilled
like empty bellies draining
   iced coffee cups
the smell of the heat from the pavement
after the early evening rain
   with the windows down in your
    16th birthday present.
bodies sprawled on a couch,
   his brother’s juice boxes on granite
writing on her thighs,
   using the foyer rug as a blanket
   and the dog as a pillow passed out
beneath the chandelier, we were
a scene.
Alarms at 6am
slightly tipsy in
last night’s clothes
we jumped into cars and drove to 
the 24 hour diner and
entertained the
Greek men, eating pancakes.

Like an episode
of The O.C. we
raced the sun
rise due east
to sit upon the
rocks of shorelines;
to spend a moment like
we were forever
cliches
don’t turn into
reality,
they turn into
perceptions—-changed
over the years we
didn’t know where
we’d be so far from now
but we drove
out of the sun
and into our beds
leaving behind
teenaged crime scenes.

#blueridge #parkway #fuckmy #lungs #orlyfe #facebook #rocks #lungs #instamodel #2012 #tumblr #softgrunge #softpunk #mediumgrunge #adequatelypunk #everythingsucks #the end

All college boys were supposed to
            carry guitars on their back
and play at open mic nights
            and sing artful covers of rap songs
            and sing to all the girls in the audience,
           but just one you in particular.

All college boys were supposed to
            look like James Dean/Deen
or James Franco, or Justin Vernon, or the lead singer from Vampire Weekend;
            dark hair, scruff on their faces, heavily lidded eyes,
            and a raspy voice from one two many cigarettes,
with cardigans from Goodwill, and button-downs secretly from J.Crew, and           flannel shirts from their grandfather.

All college boys were supposed to
            meet you at
a party you were both crashing, standing up against a wall, sharing glances as the
            only two strangers in the place and 
            shyly ask for your number or
approach you on the mall
            reading Salinger, or Vonnegut, or Fitzgerald
discussing themes and novel taste, and invite you to dinner sometime after. 

All college boys were supposed to
            invite you over, a few weeks later, sober.
and ask if you were okay with getting closer. 

All college boys were supposed to
            use protection.
            to show you a clean record of their past and future lovers,
and tell you the exact origin of the red and green bite on his shoulder
            before you knew what you were getting into.

All college boys were supposed to
            respect you,
            call you back,
            take you out to coffee one last and final time.
Before running away and moving onto another girl.

All college boys were supposed to
            make you realize your
expectations
            were to never
            be
            met.

wrote this for the on-campus poetry mag. subject: “great sexpectations” (I know its typical but I’m happy with the way it turned out) 

They said
            candlelight,
and lots of it
“turn the lights off     and play some    Barry White ———

                        makes the mood better.”

You said
            to come over—but we’d have to take the bus
“I promise I broke up with her ____
I want you so badly.”

They said
            pain
is an immediate response
but fruits become popped from
            horses, and fence posts, and bicycles.

You said
            to relax and
it wasn’t that big of a deal.

but They didn’t know,
            about the blood splattered
            on your mom’s floral sheets a
teenaged crime scene

and how     (I promised you 8 times that night I’d buy you new ones)

and You didn’t know
            that you were my first
and how embarrassed I was
or that I called my mom
            and my sister and cousin because
            it was about damn time.
or how my friends bought me celebratory ice cream from the dining hall.

We didn’t know
            what would become out of

2 bodies
            joined together
            for the
first time.

— god this fucking poem is summing up my life right now.

— for women who are difficult to love - warsan shire

i dont even wanna booty call. just a booty cuddle.