megtopus
On her neck, they were scratchy and itchy. She hated the way they left her feeling raw, peeled, exposed. Jason had laughed and apologized, but still rubbed his stubbly chin against her check. But now she doesn't wake up to beard growth. The cat sniffs her cheek, twitches his whiskers, and she wakes up alone.
I don't always believe me when you talk about giants and monsters and impossible love stories and funny happenstances and the coincidences that rule our lives. I hate the stochasticity of my every day. I don't always believe you when you tell me that it all makes sense, that there's a purpose, but I do believe you when you say that we'll be happy, that we'll love each other, that forever is well within our reach. And a part of me wants to be jaded and worldly and cynical, but we both know that I do believe you when you say "happily ever after."
In the morning, I wake up. Walk into the forest. The mist stays there all day long, not just through morning. It's like being in a horror film. I expect a giant crab to come out from the forest and drag us all into the ocean, and I'm only half disappointed when it doesn't happen.
I purse my lips together, thinking that this is the sweetest, most disgusting thing I've ever eaten. It's the wrong texture, the wrong color, and yet you look at me like we share ambrosia. I hate your foreign candy.
I think, sitting in lab with you, that maybe I'll get smarter by osmosis. Maybe when we talk together I'll gain your self-confidence and ability to just not give a shit. Then I think maybe that's the sort of thing that comes with time, and I feel young and stupid.
You've never looked more beautiful in the light than you do in the sun, if only you'd stop worrying about skin cancer.
When you're 16, everything is a million years away, and you look at college students and think: "l'll never be that old. I'll die way before then."
It stood as a giant pillar in the middle of the ocean, and scientists didn't know what to think, but I knew you would climb it and leave me all alone here. It is nice to see you waving at me from the moon, though.
you squeeze my head between your hands and when you kiss me, I feel like you are trying to push my temples in, make my skull collapse and my brains ooze out so then you can suck up all my most important parts in a slurping french kiss on a dark sidewalk where the city looks on and I miss my train.
His name was Clint (as in Clint Eastwood) and he rode the fucking most tricked-out three-wheeler on the playground, with those flame decal stickers and everything. Sometimes we'd crush little red mites on concrete barrier by the sand box together, and their little bodies mushed into red star bursts on our fingertips. It was a whirlwind love-affair driven by our mutual love of sweet rides and arthropod extermination.
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