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You can trust me.
Had I known this meant I could trust you to keep secrets from me, as opposed to keeping secrets for me, I would’ve thought twice before letting you into my living room and into my head. I told you things that should’ve acted as a deterrent but instead I feel like they only promoted your promiscuity. I considered you a brother, but you saw me as a human tissue. You cried into my shoulder and I did my best to quiet you, calm you and comfort you, did not judge you for the mistakes you made. It was only when I was betrayed I saw that behind your superman mask hid a phony.
The feeling is mutual.
I should’ve known this was false sooner than I did. I harbored a respect for you that was NOT mutual which became quite clear when you swept all acknowledgment of my emotions under the rug. The last conversation we had was devoid of sympathy when a little bit of Splenda to sweeten the blow would’ve been appreciated. It was blunt enough to cause head trauma which I felt after I spent fifteen minutes crying in my best friends arms as she failed to comfort me. Luckily for her, all I really needed was a packet of Peanut M&Ms and a hug. We continued to laugh until I was in tears again which was a better painkiller than my double dose of Vicodin I was on for my sprained ankle.
You deserve better.
This is one of the biggest lies I’ve been told. I don’t deserve better. After all I’ve been through, I am so emotionally scarred it’d be like dating a metaphorical Rocky Balboa. I don’t deserve better because I’m a fucked up girl with a lot of weird quirks and even though I hear I’m fun to be around, I don’t deserve better. I’m as much a pain in the ass as the next lesbian, and I get attached pretty quickly. It’s no ones fault but my own but I try and blame the stars and justify my emotional fragility with astrology. It’s normal for an Aries to be like this…right?
It’ll change once you get to college.
Well it hasn’t. I’m still this socially awkward girl who doesn’t quite fit in anywhere so I try to fit in everywhere. I’m very aware of how I move because I’ve been told I often look like an ostrich with epilepsy so I strive for a simple ostrich. My mother said my single streak would end in college, and that boys would be tripping over themselves to pay for my dinner…it’s a shame I don’t wanna date boys. I still have the same rotten romantic luck. It’s kind of the story of my life.
You hear lies every day.
It’s up to you to believe them.
I choose to believe that I am not deserving of better, that things won’t change, that the feelings weren’t mutual and that I can’t trust you.
And it’s your own damn fault.
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You are a professional victim.
When you pull the trigger, you somehow find a way to make it seem like you were the on that got shot. Every time.
I am an expert shoulder, selling space to lean on in exchange for one thing: love.
Not romantic love, not even platonic love.
But the most basic form of love in which you put someone else before your own carnal desires.
Where before deciding something, you take the time to consider the possibility that it would hurt to hear of your actions.
Do you not understand the concept of cause and effect?
Cause: you told me I could rely on you for friendship and honesty, and so I gave time to you, knowing that one day, when I needed to, I would be able to run to you.
Effect: I wasn’t prepared for the sucker punch to my gut when I learned of your betrayal.
Cause: I told you I wasn’t upset, and that I had moved on. That the issue was virtually nonexistent.
Effect: you called me at 2 in the morning falsely accusing the cornerstones on which you built your solitude, trying to make my own sanity crumble.
Cause: we are done letting you play superman until you look in the mirror and see the only true villain worth fighting. And then you turn around and point your steely fingers at the very people you tried to save.
Effect: to be determined.
We aren’t sure where you’re headed, but one things for sure:
You’re going it alone.
It’s gonna be hard to cross all these rivers with all the bridges you’ve thrown Molotov cocktails at, but you’re tough.
I’m sure you know how to swim.
But I have a couple questions before you turn on your heel.
Did you do it out of spite?
Did you do it in a stupor?
Did you do it out of stupidity?
But most importantly, did you bury that secret scroll in the ears of everyone but me?
Because there’s a reason I had to hear from a messenger that was not sent by you.
There’s a reason I was the last to hear of the war being waged, even as the battle was brought to my front door.
I want you to know that I forgive you for the crimes you committed against me, as heinous as they may be.
But as for the treacheries against those who look out for me when my back is turned, for that, you will never be forgiven.
I want you to know that I wish you the best, and no ill will.
But if you ever come through my door again, do not expect the same amount of hospitality I graced you with.
You may tower over me, but let it be known that I am the bigger person.
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I feel like childhood around you.
I have that funny fuzziness in my head that would accompany eating too much sugar, I think I’m invincible even though I couldn’t get more vulnerable, and my eyes are wide with wonder and hope for the future.
You’re like that giant pile of mystery dirt in my backyard. I want to jump into you, but there’s always the risk that it’s infested with fire ants and I’ll spend the next few days regretting my decision.
But, much like my childhood, I never learn from my mistakes and so time and time again, I dive head first into the pile of dirt.
Were you good with a yo-yo when you were a kid?
Cause you’re really good at stringing me along.
You make walking the dog look like the easiest trick in the book…
Perhaps marionettes were more your style.
You yank my strings, making me do things I normally wouldn’t do if I had control over my limbs.
But like most kids, you probably got tired of your toys quickly.
You threw them to the side for newer, shinier things.
They played music and they lit up, but they were cheaply made.
One by one, your fancy toys broke.
And I’d find your fingers reaching towards me yet again.
You didn’t play with me…
You just played me.
I was a space filler between birthdays and booty calls.
When you needed attention but didn’t want to take anything off, I found you opening my toy chest, eyeing me, the only one left who had any respect for you.
I don’t think you understand the severity of this disease.
You’re addicted to newness.
You cycle through toys so quickly that it’s a wonder you remember any of our names.
Please don’t take this the wrong way, puppet master, but you’re kind of a toy-whore.
You play us, then toss us.
But why do you throw me to the side, but throw them away?
Why do you keep me around?
Do I remind you of too many childhood moments that illuminate your face with a smile not many get to see?
Or do I perpetuate your dwindling ego, keeping you afloat when you don’t even know how to swim?
Don’t be surprised if I pull a Pinocchio on you and walk away.
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and as the room spins violently
I sit and I ponder
what would happen if I spun in circles with my arms outstretched?
would the room appear to stand still?
or would it spin twice as fast?
Sometimes you do things that make me wish I’d never met you
I get frustrated, confused, hurt baffled angry upsetmadpissedoff
And I say things I regret.
But then you do that thing you do.
I wish I could describe it as something more.
I tell my friends lies
Because its all I tell myself.
Because its all you told me.
And the scariest part?
I like it.
I like being lied to by you.
If I believe them, maybe this ache in my chest
Everytime I think of you will start to have some meaning
I don’t know what will happen
In two years time
But let’s live in the now
No day but today
There’s no such thing as the promise of tomorrow
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Even if you don’t.
I don’t think you realize how quickly fire spreads.
It consumes everything in its path.
Just like what they say about you.
If you’re not careful, there will be so many metaphors with your name behind them that you can’t show your face anymore.
If it’s a question of honesty, here’s a bit for you:
You’re fucking things up quicker than you know.
I just hope that in the process, you don’t lose the one person who actually gives a damn about your happiness.
I’ll give you one guess to who that is.
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DISCLAIMER: THIS IS AN EROTIC POEM. IF YOU ARE SEXUALLY CHARGED, READING THIS MAY FRUSTRATE YOU TO THE POINT OF SPONTANEOUS COMBUSTION. THIS IS AN ORIGINAL EROTICA PEICE WRITTEN BY YOURS TRULY. IN ORDER TO BE PROPERLY ENJOYED, IT NEEDS TO BE READ BY THAT VOICE IN YOUR HEAD THAT ALWAYS TURNS YOU ON AND GETS YOU GOING.
I have a virtually insatiable sweet tooth…and girl, you are the sweetest thing I have ever tasted. Your body makes Wonkas Chocolate Factory look like a run-down ice cream truck; I know I melt at the sight of you peeling off your clothes like a chocolate covered orange just begging to have your juice sucked.
I have been trained in the art of consumption and I guarantee that I will consume you from top to bottom, lapping up every last drop just like a thirsty pussy should.
When we finally get the lights off we are already in the form God made us using the hands God gave us and I can’t believe that God would not approve of something as beautiful as us. I am smothered by your scent and I breathe it in deep. As the high off your pipe mixes with the high off your body I am sent skyrocketing to the ceiling and when I land you are beneath me, your body writhing like Satan’s serpent as I tickle your skin with my fingers, listening to your sharp inhales when I graze your hip bones, teasing the nerves that throb just a few inches below and I can tell that you’re tired of waiting…and honestly, I am too, so I dive into your waters, silencing your moan with my mouth and as I play the pussy piano keys with my nimble fingers I feel you start to melt beneath my touch. I know you want more but I ease up…only because I love watching you arch your back to compensate for what I will not give to you just yet. You can call me cruel or you can call me kind but this is something I know:
I don’t care about anything other than pushing you to the edge.
As I slowly ease inside, the pulsating warmth that I am addicted to hugs my fingers and I beckon for you to “come” hither, brushing that glorious spot, that generous spot, that gorgeous spot, that G spot and I swear I can hear your heartbeat in my fingertips.
Your devil red nails dig into my arms and as I french kiss your neck, your collar bone, your breasts, I feel you get hotter and wetter and I focus all my attention on that beautiful pearl as my tongue paints soliloquies between your thighs, your fingers in my hair, your toes curled until at last, there is an explosion of sound and an explosion of emotion.
I clean up the mess I made, slowly making my way back up your shaking body, retracing where my fingers had danced earlier as I teased you. I figured we were done for the night but…as you flipped me on my back, I saw that look in your eyes that meant you were ready for round two.
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I like to measure the quality of life in a rather unconventional manner.
Some measure it by crossing things off a “bucket list” which is usually just a collection of random activities that the general bucket list writing populace agrees are essential to a full and happy life. I call those people the bucket-eers!
It’s like buccaneers…but with the word bucket.
Others measure it particularly plainly. How much money do I have? Will I have enough to give to my children? Will I have children? CAN I have children? What if my children are born abnormal? What if they happen to have a gimpy right thumb and years later they name their thumb Thomas as if it has it’s own personality??
…those people I call the left behinds. Cause in asking all their questions, they left true happiness behind.
And then you have me. I like to measure the quality of life in unexpectedness. For example, let’s say you throw a party at your house. Your expectations for the night are pretty tame. Sure, you’re prepared for a mess the next morning, and you know that a few friends may have to crash on your couch…or in your bed….but when you end up with handcuffs on your wrists, which I could slip out of, by the way, in the back of a squad car and you look like a zombie…literally…as in your face looks like a zombie to the point where the officer booking you has to run a cotton swab under your eye to make sure it isn’t real bruising; and you spend the night in a cold cell because you gave your cell mate your blanket, they only give you one, so she could go to sleep easier, and at precisely 6AM you are released, still looking like a zombie…you know you had a good night!
Granted, there is an unidentified….something smeared on your bathroom floor and you don’t remember how the bowl of vomit ended up on your nightstand, you just know it isn’t yours, and your house smells particularly…vulgar…but everyone made it home safe. And it’s not gonna be a night soon forgotten.
Next time you find yourself locked up in jail overnight, or locked out of your house, or hiding in the woods in your underwear, just remember that those are the nights everyone is always glad they had in the end.
I like to measure the quality of life in a rather unconventional manner.
I think the most important thing you can do with your life…is love. Bravely. And without fear.
And I cannot think of two things that go more hand in hand than unexpectedness and love…well except for your hand in mine.
So. Whaddya say we try and figure out the quality of our lives?
If we end up in jail, I’ll give you my blanket.
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Can we just take a moment to recognize the badass motherfucker that is Toto Gale?
You heard me right, Toto Gale, from the muthafuckin Wizard of Oz.
That tiny pint sized fuzz ball that doesn’t give a fuck.
First off, this little dog, he bites Mira Gulch, the baddest bitch in town.
And it ticks her off to the extent of calling the police and getting a warrant to cart his furry ass to the sheriff.
So this bitch stuffs him in her bitch ass basket, ties it to her bitch ass bike, and starts riding her bitch ass off into town.
Toto is all “bitch ain’t NO ONE gonna cart muthafuckin TOTO around unless your name is Dorothy muthafuckin GALE.” and he busts open that basket and books it down the street all like “FUCK THE POLIIIICCCCEEEE!!!!”
Then, this 8 inch tall badass leaps into Dorothy’s window all chill like “yo, what up bitch, you miss me?”
And when Dorothy gets all cray and decides to head outta town, Toto is all “I respect your decision, girl, you a human and I don’t have opposable thumbs.”
But THEN, she is all “WE MUST RETURN!” and toto is so chill with this bitch’s indecisiveness.
When Dorothy gets knocked the fuck out, Toto is a loyal muthafucka and sticks by her side the entire fuckin cyclone. Ain’t no thang for Toto fuckin Gale.
And I am convinced that if toto could talk, and when Dorothy says “Toto, I have a feeling we’re not in Kansas anymore” he would’ve looked her square in the eye and said “…well nothing gets past you, you brilliant fuck.”
And when Glinda the Good Witch of the North asks if Toto is the new witch, Toto would’ve said “MUTHAFUCKA I AIN’T NO WITCH IM TOTO FUCKIN GALE! YOU BETTER RECOGNIZE!”
And when all those munchkins are running around, Toto is chill as a muthafucka.
Flash forward to when Dorothy meets the scarecrow. The scarecrow is fucking with Dorothy’s head and she’s all “who said that?”
Toto, now Toto knows. He starts barking at the scarecrow like “THAT GUY. IT WAS HIM.” and Dorothy is all “Don’t be silly Toto, scarecrows can’t talk.”
During scarecrows dance routine I bet Dorothy felt like a real ass…
Then they’re trying to do some fancy skipping shit and Toto is all “why can’t these crazy muthafuckas just walk?!”
Then when everyone is hiding and shaking from the Cowardly Lions bullshit show of bravery, muthafuckin Toto barks at him. I swear to god he was all “YOU AIN’T NOTHING BUT A BIG PUSSY…CAT. PUSSY CAT. CAUSE YOU’RE A LION.”
Dorothy was all “shame for picking on things weaker than you” and Toto was all “you MUST be fucking kidding me.”
I’m telling you, Toto is the most badass character in the entire movie.
Were it not for Toto’s flawless meddling in the life of Mira Gulch, Dorothy would never have rid the land of Oz of BOTH wicked witches, freeing the munchkins as well as the flying monkeys from their imprisonment.
When the time comes to choose my spirit animal, it’s gonna be Toto muthafuckin Gale.
Falling in love is like following train tracks in the moonlight.
You can just barely see the next step you’re gonna take, but unless a train comes and ends your journey with a bright flash of light, you have no idea where your destination lies.
You were a 1992 coal train traveling in the month of December. Your cargo had no destination, but at each town along the way, you let just enough coal in the fireplaces to keep them warm for one night. Once the winter set back in, the townspeople wished for your return. They clasped their frost-bitten hands in front of the dim embers of the fire you once fueled; fed it oxygen to try and revive it. But there was no Phoenix in those ashes. No fire would be re-kindled. Much like our winter romance, it had died.
With no chance of revival, I turned to wood and lighter fluid. A much faster, brighter fire but it didn’t burn quite as hot and didn’t leave as harsh a mark when I stoked the fire with my hands. No matter how many fires I burnt, the ashes you left remained in the fireplace. A constant reminder of the heat you once brought me.
You never returned with that fire. So I went searching for it.
I wandered down tracks that led to the East, to the hills of Tennessee, where the leaves actually changed colors with the seasons. But somewhere along the way I got distracted and found myself at a racetrack as I watched brilliantly beautiful machines of passion go around and around and around and even though their dance was captivating it didn’t take me long to realize they would never go anywhere but around and around and around.
So I retraced my steps and headed back down South to find myself in Atlanta, Georgia. There I saw an old Model-T that told countless stories and painted vibrant pictures in it’s driving dust. It was a powerful machine capable of so much. But it’s previous owner had abused and neglected it. One day it hit the streets and the streets hit back, harder than the engine could handle and so it shuddered, sputtered, and died.
After 8 months of waiting to hear from the mechanic I gave up and moved westward, looking for gold. I found a high dollar sports car that the driver was too fond of to sign it over. Even though the wheel fit perfectly in my hands, and the growl of the engine made me purr like a kitten, and we hugged the curves of the road with incomparable finesse, it was not mine. It did not belong to me.
Before long I felt the creeping cold once more. I missed the fires you fueled in my hearth. Scratch that. The fires you fueled in my heart. My heart. The one that beat to the steady sound of your gears. The one that froze over when you left.
So now I wander, searching for that same heat I once felt beneath me. I’m balancing on one metal rail. Waiting for your blinding lights to appear on the horizon and tell me my search is over. Come find me. I’ll be following your tracks in the moonlight.