I feel like very few people would care if I vanished. Meh.
Is it selfish to say I want you the whole fucking time? I want you in my head. I want you in my bed. I want your hands all over my thighs. Give me your tightest grip. I want to exhale all of my loneliness and sadness to you. I want to breathe you in. I want you. I want you and I want you to want me too.
I feel the loneliest I’ve ever felt.
There is really nothing I want more right now than a person to run their fingers through my hair and kiss me and tell me everything is going to be okay.
I wonder if you know yet that you’ll leave me. That you are a child playing with matches and I have a paper body. You will meet a girl with a softer voice and stronger arms and she will not have violent secrets or an affection for red wine or eyes that never stay dry. You will fall into her and I’ll go back to spending Friday nights with ones who never learn my last name. I have chased off every fool who has tried to sleep beside me. You think it’s romantic to fuck the girl who writes poems about you. You think I’ll understand your sadness because I live inside my own. But I will show up at your door at 2am, wild eyed and sleepless and try and find some semblance of peace in your breastbone and you will not let me in. You will tell me to go home.
That photo-set reminds me of the time Shaun and I camped out and I read to him what I’d written and we had passionate sex in a tent.