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I’m shadow puppeteering
our next kissing contest,
funded by the grant
of your lower lip.

My hands collect your back
like taxes. I want more fingers,
toes, freckles as abacuses
to count your return.

Your mouth auto corrects
my body language. Your voice
hangs like streamers. I walk
like cursive.

Jesse Bradley, “You Can’t Spell Monogamy Without ‘Mono’” (via haleighhappiness)

(via fleurishes)

I feel like if my poems could see themselves
they’d want a nose job, so I’m extra careful
around mirrors. This isn’t the first love poem
I’ve written today. It’s definitely not the first
love poem to ever exist. My grocery list
looked like this last week: coffee grounds,
lipstick, eggs, canned soup, apples, lotion,
shampoo. The thing about being single
is that you can sleep in to an ungodly hour but
you’re the one that has to do all the shopping.
I still remember how kissing him made my
mouth sweat. This isn’t anything new.
Our hair falls out and the milk spoils and
we buy magazines for their glossy promises.
Currently I am sitting on the subway after
getting a bikini wax and I can’t stop rubbing
my thighs together. I would have sent you
this text but we’re going home to other
people now. Being an adult looked so much
better when we weren’t adults.

Kristina Haynes, “First Love Poem” (via fleurishes)

I think I fall in love a little bit with anyone who shows me their soul. This world is so guarded and fearful. I appreciate rawness so much.

Emery Allen (via dopatonin)

(via aetheric)

It happens to everyone as they grow up. You find out who you are and what you want, and then you realize that people you’ve known forever don’t see things the way you do. So you keep the wonderful memories, but find yourself moving on.