I barely liked him.
But he was heat at the peak of summer,
and he kissed like I was his last meal—
And I was looking for a body to drown in.
Back then, I had a candy-coated heart,
like flowers tucked in the pages of a hymnal,
and he had the thick, calloused hands
of a working man.
He talked like a friend,
but touched like an animal
and my bubblegum chest wanted that
in ways it couldn’t understand yet.
He asked what colors I kissed in
and the poet in me cracked open and spilled over—
Exposed like an open wound,
like all the soft, pink parts of me
I didn’t know about.
He was a means to an end:
my Machiavellian loss of innocence.
I don’t regret him,
but sometimes I wish I did.
i really like long-distance domesticity. like, when you get into the habit of saying good morning and goodnight to someone, telling someone your plans for the day not because they’re remarkable but so they’ll know what you’re up to, telling someone where you’re going, if you’ll…
"She’s really pretty for a black girl"
“He’s really cool for a gay guy”
“She’s doing really well for a woman”