electrickiss

there are the mornings where your back cracks as you reach over seeking for the curve of my hip and thunder rumbles through the clouds outside just a single second after your sleepy bones sigh. sometimes there are mornings where aches spread slowly down the slopes of your thighs before coming to a rest behind relaxed knees and the skin there is nice and warm when my cold ankles come to rest around them. other times there are mornings where angry winds howl through the bars of our ribcages oh-so-loudly and we’re so sick and tired of feeling sick and tired that the walls tremble in fear as we play our least favourite game of pushp

when people are in love, they tend to aim far, make extraordinary goals, and weave hundreds of promises in and out of their pores with the thickest threads they can get their hands on they want singing birds, unnamed galaxies that only belong to them, an eternal supply of fireworks lodged safely in the crevices of their hearts, and maps of each other’s bodies but i am content with your voice, the presence of you in my head, your name and how innocent letters thread together to form something so beautiful, and the way pain bows aside to let you in (refer to: loving realistically)

some say that a handful of names will always taste bitter on your tongue even if you never have to feel the weight of each individual letter on your tastebuds ever again but only fools would move forward without tasting other letters that could lift that bitterness off your tongue and replace it with something sweeter, gentler, tastier (refer to: the moving on)

nothing hangs directly above your head weighing down on a strand of possiblys and maybes and your mouth dries up somewhat as you stare up at it with heavy eyes. somewhere across the room fire is seeping down the edges of an old newspaper and an ash flake drifts down to the carpet where it bleeds and blends and is nowhere to be seen. you were born wild and you won’t stop running until it’s over but you must first look past the beads of expensive sadness wound around your neck because your life depends on it. the number 820 is scribbled down your arm and you think you’ve said goodbye to someone 820 times before becaus

there’s a cross inked down the flat plane of his back, one thick line of black punctured by the jut of bone, but a shrug of fabric later and that’s all gone – was it ever really there in the first place? the lone paper bag in the corner of the room has wrinkles all over its front and back, trademark symbols of wisdom and serenity – gone through mass production and rough hands. a still body of water slowly clouds over in the tub, the temperature warm enough to fight away goosebumps but cold enough for you to want to sink into it and never rise – one slow trickle is all it takes for empty gaps to fill up over

she lives with jagged horns up and down her back that her hair gets caught up in. sleep comes rarely, and when it does, it prefers to tangle itself between the strands of her hair instead of seeping into her eyes. she stays awake with round little things that people call happy pills – she thinks they taste vile, but they’re the only things keeping her awake. acid breaks out of the happy pills as they land in her stomach, and she can feel them biting through the walls, fighting their way into tired bloodstreams. sometimes she cracks into minuscule bits like a porcelain doll dropped on wood. she wonders if hammering her pieces with

you are all sharp bones sunken cheeks and razored teeth your fingers leave indents that (sometimes) bleed this is your only legacy

he is the winter prince and it suits him because the way he breathes freezes your pain into blood-red icicles and it doesn't hurt anymore