I. Here it is: painting self-portraits in black and blue and swallowing razor blades so when I choke, something other than your name comes out.
II. Here it is: falling asleep in beds that aren’t mine and leaving hotel rooms before sunrise.
III. Here it is: nights spent swallowing seven shots and calling it pride, calling it a reason to dial your number and tell you I’m still in love with you.
IV. Here it is: calling you from a stranger’s front porch when it’s Sunday night and he’s calling me by the wrong name.
V. Here it is: staring at sidewalks and wondering how long it would take before I found myself on your doorstep.
Vl. Here it is: knowing that I can’t run into your arms again, knowing I can’t breathe you in.
VII. Here it is: being okay with that." — The Seven Stages of Moving On // heartofthebitter-mindofapoet (via heartofthebitter-mindofapoet)
You’re standing against a wall, holding onto a girl whose knees you’ve shot without touching. Holding, but not in the way you’ve ever known it. Hold like you’re drowning, hold like you’re buried, hold until your arms are trembling from the strength of it. She’s elastic against you, she’s all wilting and drooping and long long lashes hiding eyes painted black from wanting. She won’t look at you because she doesn’t know how to without spilling desire.
You’re both talking a language that neither of you can understand. But it sounds like ‘please’ or it sounds like ‘touch me everywhere.’ But this is more than your fingers or your mouth. This is the five seconds that it takes to peel her self-conscious away from her body. This is the five minutes of holding her hips between your hands and pressing your fingers into the stretch marks there and saying ‘you’re so fucking beautiful.’ This is really meaning it. This is thanking God for your hands and their ability to feel. You think maybe the dip of her sternum is forgiveness. This is how the soft of her against you makes your breath ragged. This is your chest heaving and sweat on your upper lip. The way you’ve forgotten the first name of every girl you’ve ever touched. The way her hair feels between your knuckles when you yank it. The noise she makes.
This is the hour that it takes for her to believe that you want her, skin and all. And when she believes you, you’ll know. Her defences will fall off her like water. She’ll shrug the sweater off her shoulders and that strip of bare skin will drive you so crazy that you’ll think about it for weeks later and it’ll make you hard again. You’ll text her saying that you’re thinking about her and your colleagues will ask why the freckles on your cheeks have connected to turn you bright red and you’ll mumble something about the sun. It’s not the sun. It’s the way she fell apart when you bit her neck and moaned honey into her throat. You’ll both be so brimming the ocean will rise jealous to see you. You’ll meet a girl and she’ll trust you and it will feel like undressing with all your clothes still on. It’ll feel like the raw of a wound and the relief of healing. She’ll put her throat in your open hands and close her eyes. This is what trust looks like.
Dip your fingers into her swollen mouth. Lean closer, breathe the words, you’ll fill her like this: ‘you are so beautiful and I’m going to put my hands everywhere.’" — Azra.T (via 5000letters)