I want you.
All the time.
No one else.

Blue is the Warmest Color   (via forlornes)
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Love isn’t soft, like those poets say. Love has teeth which bite and the wounds never close.

Stephen King, The Body 1982 (via disbar)
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  • #kitten #cute #shoulders #her #baby #mine
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iv-xxvii-vi:

keepit—rad:

keepit—rad:

She’s mine. I don’t want anyone else getting the same butterflies I get when she smiles or says my name. I don’t want anyone else making her blush or calling her “babe.” Call me selfish I don’t care. She’s mine.

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This poem yells I have met so many people
I will never love. Slosh slosh slosh. Can you
taste the alcohol in this poem? It’s darker
than well water, sweeter than the sprinkler
planted between your thighs. This poem
whispers Life needs to wash behind its neck.
There’s too much grime caked into the bathtub,
and really, who has the time to plan such a big
wedding? Can a poem talk underwater?
Standing on my roof, this poem yells These words
are red because you have touched me holy.
There is death in the air, and I haven’t even
brought up the birds that have stopped
coming around. Standing on my roof,
this poem looks at the pool below. There are statues
of lions with good posture. Everything faces
north, quietly shivers against the breeze. Standing
on my roof, this poem yells Cannonball.
Splash splash splash.

Gregory Sherl, “Poem as Happy Hour” (via nevervulgar)
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