You Are Home.
Ask me anything
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i miss you
Missing you was…
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I left my favorite pair of underwear at your house. I know your mother hates me, can I come pick them up?
It’s been almost a month and I still miss you like a fucking limb.
I didn’t know my bones could ache until I met you.
You know, a week before we broke up, do you remember? I had bought a book of poetry. You asked why I didn’t read something more interesting and I could feel my insides splinter.
You said poetry was all lies dressed up to sound pretty. When I look at you these days, I want to ask if sadness sounds pretty to you too.
It’s 3 a.m. and this alcohol tastes like you.
I saw you staring at me today during Lit class. I smiled at you and you didn’t smile back. I almost cried.
The girl who sits next to me smells like you.
I miss you.
I have never had so many bad nights.
Sometimes I write poetry about you on the internet. Strangers who have never met either of us think you’re cruel – they tell me if they had the honor of loving me, we’d have sex three times a day and they’d scream my name when they came.
They think it is beautiful, how I am broken. I don’t think they understand.
You used to tell me I was beautiful. I tried saying it in the mirror the other day, but it sounded wrong without your mouth wrapped around it.
Everything I say sounds wrong without your mouth wrapped around it.
We were never in love, but, oh God, we could have been.
"15 Texts I Almost Sent You"
by d.a.s (via
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"I look for you in everyone."
Six Word Story #16 by absentions (via
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"People hate that I flip two cigarettes
Upside down in each pack
But I hate that people notice
When you gain three pounds,
But not when you buy a new hat.
I’ve been told that the way I sleep
With one leg draped over
The person lying next to me
But I think it’s annoying
When people tell me
I look pretty,
But only when I paint my face.
I’ve heard that old men
Like to touch the girls who work late at bars,
But I want to know
Why they never kiss the women they married
fourty-two years ago.
I’ve noticed that mothers teach their daughters
That it’s rude to refuse a hug
From an uncle they’ve met three times,
But forget to teach them
That they aren’t obliged to kiss
The boy who paid for dinner."
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"Do you remember the way the girls
would call out “love you!”
conveniently leaving out the “I”
as if they didn’t want to commit
to their own declarations.
I agree that the “I” is a pretty heavy concept."
Self Portrait at 28” (via
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"And one day, your name didn’t make me smile anymore."
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"I masturbated 4 times today.
Is it wrong that I think about fucking
you all the time?
I mean, Jesus, 4 times in one day?
In my head, I have your body down
to a science.
I know how to make you beg and I know
where to put my hands.
We touch each other like piano keys
and it is beautiful, the way we sing.
Maybe there are some things you
just shouldn’t say out loud.
Maybe that way you never have to
apologize for them.
It’s Wednesday and I am out of my mind.
I am counting the tiles on the kitchen
floor just for some peace.
1, 2, 3, we don’t even make it to the bed, 4, 5, 6, I bite your neck and draw blood, 7, 8.
My mom asks me what I am thinking
about and I want to throw up.
I keep counting.
Want is an ache that won’t leave me be,
even when I sleep.
On Thanksgiving, I am going
to lick the cranberry sauce off of
my fingers and wish it was you."
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"I broke my own heart loving you"