I want to hold your hand and I want to hold your hips down while you’re writhing.
I want to make your eyes light up and I want to make them roll in the back of your head.
I want to be your reason to wake up and your reason to stay in bed.
I want to kiss your wounds and I want you to leave them on my back.
I want to play with your hair while you sleep and I want to feel it between my fingers while you are on top of me.
I want to memorize the repetition of your breathing and I want to memorize the sporadics of your moaning.
I want to see the arch in your grin and I want to feel the arch in your back before you collapse.
I want to go out to dinner with you and I want to go down on you.
I want to to feel you in my heart and I want to feel you inside me.
I want to make you laugh and I want to make you scream.
I want to still be able to taste you in the morning.
I want you in every form.
It’s not that I don’t love you. It’s the sound I heard when I was 9 and my father slammed the front door so hard behind him I swear to god it shook the whole house. For the next 3 years I watched my mother break her teeth on vodka bottles. I think she stopped breathing when he left. I think part of her died. I think he took her heart with him when he walked out. Her chest is empty, just a shattered mess or cracked ribs and depression pills.
It’s not that I don’t love you. It’s all the blood in the sink. It’s the night that I spent 12 hours in the emergency room waiting to see if my sister was going to be okay, after the boy she loved, told her he didn’t love her anymore. It’s the crying, and the fluorescent lights, and white sneakers and pale faces and shaky breaths and blood. So much blood.
It’s not that I don’t love you. It’s the time that I had to stay up for two days straight with my best friend while she cried and shrieked and threw up on my bedroom floor because her boyfriend fucked his ex. I swear to god she still has tear streaks stained onto her cheeks. I think when you love someone, it never really goes away.
It’s not that I don’t love you. It’s the six weeks we had a substitute in English because our teacher was getting divorced and couldn’t handle getting out of bed. When she came back was smiling. But her hands shook so hard when she held her coffee, you could see that something was broken inside. And sometimes when things break, you can’t fix them. Nothing ever goes back to how it was. I got an A in English that year. I think her head was always spinning too hard to read any essays.
It’s not that I don’t love you. It’s that I do.
Being in a relationship is kinda like Pokemon.
If someone really wants to be with you
they better have a lot of fuckin balls to catch you.
You’re a fuckin rare legendary not some easy rattata.