There was a guy called PixelMoth13 on a late-night forum saying, “Love is a wound that repeatedly tears and stitches itself back together.” I clicked like.
When I got back to your room, my makeup gone, wet strands of hair sticking to my back,
When I came of age, the rules were a little different. We were all facing the same battle back then, so it didn’t matter as much what labels we used for each other.
Rude Guy tortured me. I would go over to his house in ridiculously slutty outfits, and he would only open his door a crack, and give me a poetry quiz. Then he would let me in, but still not fuck me!
The snow is falling in big chunks, disguising the somber gray of the neighborhood I hate, Bushwick. I thought it’d grow on me by now, our second winter here; it hasn’t. On the street below is a bright
She was about three weeks into the East Hollywood apartment just a few blocks away south of Thai Town, which meant she was three weeks into a new life where the most consistent relationship she was
Key moments of our togetherness keep flashing before my eyes, lingering there.
Like, what the fuck is this dude’s problem?
You told me you understood when I tried to explain why my face was so pale, my eyes so sunken, my hands so shaky. I was sure I was crazy—you not only said I wasn’t crazy, but asked me point blank if I was a spy.
I got a tattoo on my ass at her behest.
We fumbled about with each other for a few years, but things blew over before we could settle into anything like conjugality.
