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You are full of scars, some are shallow, some are deep. Your eyes are empty and I can’t sense any emotions on it. Your heart is barely beating, your smile is broken too. What have they done to you? You don’t deserved all these. They broke your trust, stole your happiness. Till you lost your faith in love, and only hatred left behind.



That’s the thing about being a writer you can pretend in front of them, but your words can’t deny the feelings the you are trying to deceived. Your words can’t hide the truth that you have a loving heart.



On the day I saw your poetry, I feel your aches, your brokenness, your fear and coldness. I want to hold you, mend you, but I choose to admire you from afar, that I’m afraid to get near to your sharp fangs. So I visit you once or twice a day silently, to read your writings. And everyday I know you have more behind your writings. That your words are your shield and your verses are your sanctuary. And I can’t help myself loving a broken being behind their poetry.



You captured me with your words, but you taught me the way how to beat my heart to they who only want to find others and love them beyond their brokenness.



From day one up to now, I found the beauty behind your brokenness, that even a damage one can be fixed to look like brand new. My gentle hand will protect your fragile heart. My writer, my lover, the owner of my heart.



I’m deeply in love with a broken writer.

i see so many girls and there’s so many different types of pretty… there’s like the honey, green tea pretty girls that like sitting outside and soaking up the sun…. the dark pretty with black eye make up and wild hair and piercings… the bad bitch pretty with killer highlight and striking forbidden….. the lazy pretty girls with snapbacks and sneakers…. the bookish girls with glasses and sweaters that make your heart melt…. the soft Angel pretty girls who just look as sweet as a peach with soulful eyes…. the cute girls with chubby cheeks and messy hair and it seems like warmth emits from them… girls are so fucking beautiful



which one are you???

I hate you.



I know I could conjure the English language to make a more meaningful statement than this, but honestly I can’t bring myself to find anything that resonates as deeply as this; I hate you.



I hate how bland you are, and how ‘normal’ you are. I hate that I always have to trim my edges so you don’t cut yourself with the sharp ones. I hate the sound of the words ‘I’m sorry’ because you’ve said them so many times they’ve lost all meaning to me. I hate how little effort you put into us, and how it’s always me who has to be pulling at the end of the seams to keep us from falling apart.



I hate you. I hate you for making me feel useless and unwanted and pathetic. I hate you for making me question why I’m not enough. I hate you for feeling so little when I’m constantly suffocated from feeling too much.



But most of all. I hate me. I hate me for being a hypocrite, because I called you a coward but in this relationship the coward is me. Because you make me feel so miserable, but instead of standing up and walking away all I do is sit back and take it. Because it’s easier that way, you know? Because at least that way I can have a boyfriend, and I might be miserable but I won’t be alone, as that makes up for something right???

I love being horribly straightforward. I love sending reckless text messages (because how reckless can a form of digitized communication be?) and telling people I love them and telling people they are absolutely magical humans and I cannot believe they really exist. I love saying "Kiss me harder" and "You’re a good person" and, "You brighten my day." I live my life as straight-forward as possible.

Because one day, I might get hit by a bus.



Maybe it’s weird. Maybe it’s scary. Maybe it seems downright impossible to just be—to just let people know you want them, need them, feel like, in this very moment, you will die if you do not see them, hold them, touch them in some way whether its your feet on their lap on the couch or your tongue in their mouth or your heart in their hands.



But there is nothing more beautiful than being desperate.



And there is nothing more risky than pretending not to care.

We are young and we are human and we are beautiful and we are not as in control as we think we are. We never know who needs us back. We never know the magic that can arise between ourselves and other humans.



We never know when the bus is coming.

I’m trying so hard to avoid bad thoughts get into my head. It’s exhausting. I was fine when I was away, it was easy to forget about the real world. But now I’m back, and the same faces, same names and same insecurities are haunting me. Again.

I pull you closer to me like I’m pulling the pin in a grenade, about to throw it over enemy lines under heavy fire. You wrap your arms around me, and for a brief second, we’re safe. For just a minute, everything is okay, and all the memories flying like debris through the air in my mind don’t bother me. I know eventually you will have to let go of me, eventually the morning sun will rise, and the enemy fire will start back up. But for now I am safe and sound, and despite the war raging on, I think I’m going to be okay. We say I love you like it’s a battle cry. We’re going to win this.

At some point, I have to stop writing about the people who left. I have to stop rewriting stories to make it look like nothing ever ended. At some point, I have to unclutter my workspace and throw away unsent letters, delete drafts that I can’t finish, take down tiny notes I accidentally published. I’m tired of twisting tales. They left and that’s all of it.

I want to fuck your mind.

I don’t care how gorgeous your body is or how large your cock is.

I want to fuck your mind.

I don’t care that I’m submissive and that not all our fetishes align.

What I care about is your mind.

Your beautiful, brilliant mind.

I want to fuck you as your eyes stare into my soul, saying more than words ever can.

I want to fuck the conversations we had and pictures we shared that left my throat parched and my pussy drenched.

I want to stare into your eyes and know their depths.

I want to touch each inch of your skin and know the stories behind every beautiful scar.

I want to hear your voice sing me to sleep with ballads of old.

I want you to know my heart, it’s true desires and darkest fantasies.

I want you to know, just by my voice, my mood.

I want you to know my thoughts by one look at me.

I want you to know when I’m filtering the truth.

I want to be there for your triumphs and downfalls.

I want to be your escape and your reality.

I want to be curled up next to your body every night and morning.

I want to kneel before you.

I want to feel your strong hands on my skin.

I want to know I’m yours.

I want you to know me. All of me.

I want you to know, just how much you mean to me.

But mostly, I want to fuck your mind.