she does not come to you
with a mouthful of salt
by chance.
she was taught
to like when he calls her bitch,
taught to stay soft
when he puts his hands around her neck
tight enough to bruise

now when he whispers
about pushing her to the ground
and pulling her hair from behind
she moans a little

so when you kiss her
do so full of tongue and
easy softness
pant her name
kiss her neck
run your fingers through her hair
and only pull if she asks you to

when you
brush your finger over the dry flakes
on her bottom lip
do so to understand
run them along your teeth
know how they came to her
know how breaking her rocks
into easily digestible flakes
was something
she was taught


Lying on the bedroom floor coughing up dust.
The sweat has turned cold and my hands have not stopped trembling.
Insides swirling on their sides.

I am nothing but a pile of recyclables.
A collection of originals.
Coming together to make a pitiful whole.

I am no winner.
I am not the next best thing.

I am the past bubbling up.
A reincarnation.
A fraud.
With nothing but apologies to offer.


the irony of two travellers trying to catch each others moving feet. Or kissing someones wounds deeper than the sea. What a strange feeling it is to refuse love. To cringe at lips plastered all over my body as if it’s forgotten the taste of softness, nor does it feel it deserves it. 
How am I suppose to tell my body it deserves to be nurtured? 

Fluttershy - Working In Background