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An open letter to the next boy I fall for:

How do I resist the temptation to be loved by you?

You stepped right on and through the welcome mat

of my life as if the deadbolt lock was dismantled the second

I heard you say my name.

It was the sensation of feeling like

the very foundation of

the walls I’ve welded around my heart

were mere crumbling sand castles.

I begin to make theories and calculations

and thoroughly unreliable formulas,

proving that

the depth of the dimple in your left cheek

is directly proportional

to the curve of your smile

because there

must be

some sort of science

behind everything that is you,

behind the reasons why

I find myself unfolding at the seams

undoing everything I’ve understood

about the looming possibility that

I would be spending


sleeping in a bed made only for one.

I tell myself that the entire notion

and commotion of romance

is silly.

A recipe and potion

for googly eyes and soft touches.

But then there are days when

I look at you and

every love song that I wish was written about me

starts playing in an endless loop.

“I hope you don’t mind

I hope you don’t mind

that I’ve put down in words,

how wonderful life is while you’re in the world.”

And then I get scared,

scared that I have run out of pretty words to say to you,

using them all up on muses before you.

I get scared that my fingers

have been closed in fists for so long,

that I no longer know how to

make room in between them

to lace with yours.

I get scared because


I only know how to love too much.

I was never good at coloring inside the lines.

And yet,

I cannot help but


invite you

under my covers.

I lay myself bare.

I lay myself to be explored by your hands.

Leave behind your fingerprints on my skin

before we both fully wake up in the morning.

I lay my mind bare.

Come run through its labyrinth

its dark corners

its curvy pathways,

and make a home in my heart.

You are welcome here.

I’m overwhelmed by the hunger

to be unraveled by you,

to be discovered,

like discolored layers of

the deepest parts of me,

greyed and tainted by stains

from those too reckless to hold me.

I beg to be excavated,


like untapped wells of

my deepest secrets that I hope to God

you are interested in enough to ask me about.

I am still waiting to be celebrated.

I am covered in a blanket of flaws,

but I ask you to not give up on me just yet.

Just a forewarning:

I am the biggest dork in the world.

I will be thrilled by small things

like how a new pen feels when I first write with it

or when my leftovers fit perfectly

into the Tupperware I choose to place them in.

I know,

It’s stupid.

But know that I will also be thrilled

by the way your hand lands on the small of my back

or where the corners of your lips land on your face when you smile.

I will be thrilled by the sheer understanding

that I love you on purpose.

As my heart as my witness,

I love you dearly

on purpose.


An open letter to the next boy who will break my heart:

Because you will.

I ask that you do it gently,

do it with your fingers still flossed in my hair,

tangling them tightly

like my locks were attached to my heart,

mangling and dangling

in the cavity of my chest,

cheeks spangling and wet with tears.

Do it with your thumb still brushing against my jawline,

suspending the fever of loneliness

just a bit longer.


even for a bit,

that this is hurts you too.

Even if this was the easiest task that you’ve ever had to face,

Even if this was a simple as breathing,

pretend that it takes conquering a thousand Everests

to say “Good-bye” to me.


be soft when you tell me

that you no longer love me.

Be soft when you tell me

that you never did.

Be soft when you tell me

that you never will.

I’ve noticed that nuclear bombs,

devastating and obliterating

anything they touch,

produce massive mushroom clouds

that oftentimes,

look just like the bouquet of roses

you sent me.

You are what it feels like

to reset forgotten passwords,

and to restore dusty books.

to restart rusty car engines.

and to restring old guitars.

I look at you and remember

why Joni Mitchell’s

“Blue” album

still burns right through me.

You have become

the only muse

that keeps me awake.

Like far too many

espresso shots

in my dirty chai latte

at 3:25 in the morning.

Like a reckless addict

looking for an all too willing lover

at an open bar.

Like L.A. highways

and New York subways.

I will not know sleep for a while.

Remember that you once gave me butterflies

that swayed and swirled with the ghosts of

men who didn’t know how to love me,

and kept them at bay long enough

to teach me that it’s okay to love again.

Remember that the rhythm of your kisses

was what made me love to dance.

Remember that the color of your eyes

was once my favorite poem.

I ask

if there is a “she”

that you don’t tell me her name.


Because it’s one thing to know that you don’t love me,

and another thing to know that you love someone else.

And another thing to know the new name on your tongue.

Your eyes will soon become reflections

of the dark things I feel when I’m lying

arms and legs stretched out,

pretending that my bed isn’t as vast and empty as it really is.

I try to use my limbs to take up the space

so that loneliness doesn’t have room

to sit at the edge of my bed.

Yet somehow

it always finds ways to lay down and latch itself onto me,

like an infant, heavy and asleep on my chest.

You can keep the love letters I’ve written you,

the ones you place under your pillow,

as well as the ones you’ve read through searching my eyes.

You can keep the way your name sounds when I say it,

I will eventually know how to unmiss forming my mouth around it

in ways more than simply recalling a memory

and an old fading story.

You can keep the lazy kisses I’ve peppered over your collarbones

if I can keep the soundtrack of your smile

playing on repeat

until I unlearn the muscle memory of having

your body next to my body.

I will not question you for unloving me.

I will not question you for packing up and cleaning out

whatever home you had made inside me.

I only ask that you leave the door unlocked when you leave.

And know that the welcome mat in the doorway

will never not know what it felt like to have you enter.

"Poetry is the way I fuck you when you’re gone."

Nicola Cayless, Literary Sexts (via yourheartafire)

"One day we’ll both
forget the storms we danced through.
You’ll find a nice girl
to fall into peace with
and you’ll forget about the days
we lost our minds together.
I’ll be across the world
and still know the exact moment
it happens.
I’ll pretend that I don’t
and I’ll forget you
the way I forget every dream
I’m not brave enough for.
I’ll meet someone who reminds
me of the years I gave my best
to a boy who held me like he meant it.
And I want you to know that it
could have been you.
That it almost was you,
but we didn’t know how to be good for each other
and how to stay that way.
In another world, it is you,
and we’re better for it.
I hope you know that I wanted that.
That a part of me always will."

Y.Z, sinking ships and ghost town islands (via rusty voices)LL YAZ


Shawngela forever dude

it’s either love or just the sun in my eyes

"I hope my absence haunts you."

(Six Word Story)







this will never not be funny.


i can’t actually breathe

It looks pissed

get out

HAHAHAAHAHHAHAHAHAHAHA omgg I can’t stop laughing



Who the hell invented the word “smexy” and what the fuck does the letter m in it even stand for