Two times that night
your phone rang; little blue light
illuminating itself
from the pocket of your jeans
vibrating against me as
you shoved your tongue down my throat.
I knew it was her but honestly
I didn’t care - or I thought I didn’t
There was an empty bottle of wine
on the table and I remember
staring at it wondering
where it all went.
(Inside me,
like you would be soon)
And I wanted to throw up
right then & there - so goddamn
sick to my stomach in that instant
tired of giving you everything and still
feeling those vibrations against my leg every night.
But it would always be like this.
Waiting for you day after day,
you getting what you want and me
falling asleep alone as you put your socks on
mumbling something about a work emergency
barely looking into my eyes
as you leaned down to kiss my skin
(still salty with sweat from yours)
walking out of my door & reaching into your
front pocket to answer her.
(Source: skin-n-bones)
I’ve been tired. I’ve been sad. I’ve been anxious. I’ve been smelling you in the hallway outside my bedroom. I’ve been writing too many papers.
The way your hands felt on my skin after a long day,
rough on my body but soft to the touch.
I miss your fingertips.
To say I don’t miss you on nights like this -
with the wind screaming outside my window
like it has some kind of reason to be angry,
would be a lie.
And I’m not much of a liar.
Just one more time I’d like you here in my bed
your warm skin being the only blanket I’d ever need,
and I’d drink you in till the sun came up.
But if we’re being honest,
since I’ve never been much of a liar;
I didn’t care much that you were walking out of my front door
even though I was still a little thirsty.
Our first time together
started out in your truck -
the one you sold with my lip print still on the window,
you touched my leg and your hand
burned my skin and I was wearing jeans
but then I wasn’t.
The second time was a
little more romantic, but I was never one for romance.
Flowers and chocolates didn’t matter
when you were pinning me against the wall like that.
I remember the third time vividly
because we were sitting on your couch watching
some dumb tv show
and when you reached your hand under my skirt,
your eyes got wide -
like you had just found God,
and then I showed you the closest thing
to holy you had ever seen.
The last time was just sad
you fucked me on your bed and there was no emotion
After you finished you said you were tired
and I said something like, “I’d better go”
I drove away from your house
wanting to drive straight into a tree.
(Source: skin-n-bones)
Creative Writing: Untitled
hooligansurvival:
I want a small place. One bedroom, one bath, hardwood floors, nothing fancy.
I don’t need anything but a mattress and your arms around me every night. I used to buy books until you asked me, “Why?” said I never read them twice anyways. I don’t need the bookshelves, all that extra space. I would rather spend the rest of my days with your fingertips tracing words, secrets, books into my skin. The only writing I’d ever read time and time again.
I just want to take baths with you. I want to be propped up opposite from you, struggling to keep my head above water, hearing your laugh ringing off the walls and in my ears. I want to stay up late watching cooking shows, the both of us half-naked, my legs on your lap, you massaging my feet like you always do. I want to come home and find you laying down, wake you up with my eager mouth on yours, ending up naked and sweaty and always a little out of breath, on top of all of the sheets, cheeks red, content. I want to sit on the counter-top and watch as you cook your famous breakfast sandwich; you always let me have three bites, all I need. I want to lay in bed with you, under ten blankets, looking at you, rubbing my cheek against yours because that’s my favorite spot in the whole entire world, you whispering, “I love you, more than you know.” but I know.
I always know.
Mimi Jashari
Creative Writing Contributor
I want a small place. One bedroom, one bath, hardwood floors, nothing fancy.
I don’t need anything but a mattress and your arms around me every night. I used to buy books until you asked me, “Why?” said I never read them twice anyways. I don’t need the bookshelves, all that extra space. I would rather spend the rest of my days with your fingertips tracing words, secrets, books into my skin. The only writing I’d ever read time and time again.
I just want to take baths with you. I want to be propped up opposite from you, struggling to keep my head above water, hearing your laugh ringing off the walls and in my ears. I want to stay up late watching cooking shows, the both of us half-naked, my legs on your lap, you massaging my feet like you always do. I want to come home and find you laying down, wake you up with my eager mouth on yours, ending up naked and sweaty and always a little out of breath, on top of all of the sheets, cheeks red, content. I want to sit on the counter-top and watch as you cook your famous breakfast sandwich; you always let me have three bites, all I need. I want to lay in bed with you, under ten blankets, looking at you, rubbing my cheek against yours because that’s my favorite spot in the whole entire world, you whispering, “I love you, more than you know.” but I know.
I always know.
I haven’t felt this way in months. I want a cigarette. It’s this craving I used to experience - strong and persistent and heavy and exhausting. I’ve been saying ‘I’m sorry’ more - but I don’t mean it. I’m listening to music that’s been buried away for a while now because it used to make me feel too much and I miss that. Feeling too much doesn’t exist. You should always feel too much. It’s better that way.
I scrape my knuckle on my ceiling so often now that there’s a scar there. I breathe easy and walk everywhere. Time flies. I can’t remember what happened yesterday and I don’t want to. I miss your words. I’m tired and my heart hurts.
You knocked the breath out of me tonight. You don’t know that you did that and I wouldn’t tell you if you asked. I like to keep small things like that to myself - hide them away in the dark & untouched corners of my heart, lock the door, swallow the key, let it all gather dust.
Sometimes I forget your face, but I always remember your hands. They were worn down, callouses and scars and crooked knuckles. Your fingers were thin and long and somehow fit perfectly with mine. I could never forget that.
But you are gone now and all I have is this memory of your fingertips trailing up my legs and then between them - gone - disappearing there like your hand was the car and my body a road map it had memorized perfectly. You were effortless and you were the reason behind every single one of my sighs. I need you to know that.
(Source: skin-n-bones)
It was March. If I looked outside of my window, I saw snow melting, the sun trying to peek through the persistent overcast skies. I was wearing one of your t-shirts and across it read “Welcome to paradise.” Stupid shirt, I was in hell.
Sometimes I would still call out to you. In the morning when I was still half-asleep and plenty delirious, facing the wall, I would feel your presence behind me, turn to greet you with a good morning, always half-expecting your sleepy smile, your “You and me, love.” Instead met by emptiness. I still pretend you are there at times, sometimes it gets me through the day.
Your absence from my life, this world, everything, would just hit me out of the blue. I remember thinking I heard your laugh while walking through the woods behind my house. You took me there and we laid underneath my favorite tree, on a blanket, and sometimes we couldn’t stop talking, sometimes we couldn’t find any words inside of ourselves. Made love a couple of times, carved our initals into the bark, did drugs and thought we discovered the meaning of life. I sat against that tree and cried until nothing was left inside of me, drained, hollow, empty. I am sitting beneath our tree right now, just me, no you, and I am cold here without you. This place only had significance with you here, now it kind of drains the life out of me - leaves me worn out fried wrecked obliterated tired burnt out, exhausted.
I still remember that night, the phone call, you and me, no, me, just me now. I remember the way my heart broke, inside of my chest, crushed into a million little pieces, floating around trying to find their way back together, an irreparable puzzle, the game of life, congratulations, you lost.
At your funeral I lied and said I hadn’t seen you in three months. It took every ounce of willpower I had to not drive into oncoming traffic afterwards, anything to hear you say it one more time, but killing myself meant killing what was left of you inside of my heart, and I could not die just because you could no longer live.
I want you to know that I am sorry. I feel you here with me sometimes, inside of my heart and inside of my mind, behind me when I am pouring a cup of coffee, when I cannot find it in me to get out of bed some mornings. I’m sorry you felt this world wasn’t enough for you, that I wasn’t enough for you, that for some sad reason, inside of your tired little head, you were never enough for anyone, especially not yourself.
You were dead long before that dreadful day in December. An empty soul attached to a lively body, it didn’t make sense to you, everything you’ve ever known jumbled around inside of your head. When you put the gun to your head, were you thinking about me? I think you were so focused on winning, you did it love, you finally figured it out - the only way to get rid of the demons inside of your head was to force them out yourself.
One bullet, eviction notice on the door, one second, you and me, the next, no more you, just me, barely me, all you, crimson staining the blue paint of our bedroom walls. No more you, no more me, just in different ways.
You might have escaped them, but these demons are clever. They found life inside of my head right after I opened the door and found you there, no longer alive to some, but finally free to me.
I am laying here, against this tree, looking at the sky, which has just opened up, the sun trying it’s best to peek through. For a while I thought I couldn’t breathe without you, but I can see my breath in front of my face, a foggy kind of white, disappearing into the atmosphere, still there but invisible, changed, kind of like me.
There was life before you and there will be life after you. If you can hear me, I want you to know I miss you, I love you, I’m sorry, I forgive you, I will forget you for a while, but I will always remember you.
(Source: skin-n-bones)
I’ve been eating less and getting drunk on the thought of you. Today is July 17th. It took me 2 hours to get out of bed this morning. I woke up to 6 text messages from you. I turned 18 years old exactly 5 days ago. If you think about it, numbers mean nothing, time really doesn’t exist; it is all just a way to keep track of change.
The other night I almost gave you everything. I stopped myself because what would I have left of myself? For so long, it has been just me, only me, always me. You changed that. I lost myself in you and I don’t want to be found.
I couldn’t stop drinking about you, but now I can’t stop drinking you in. You are bitter and sweet and like nothing I’ve ever tasted before.
It’s almost 3 o’clock in the afternoon and I am sitting cross-legged on my bed. The blinds are drawn because everything is better in the dark. I can still smell you on my skin. No matter if I shower 1,000 times or don’t see you for a month straight, the perfume of you always finds it’s way back to me. It is deja vu, stopping right in my tracks, walking out of the grocery store, catching your scent, closing my eyes, making my legs weak, traveling from my heart, down to my toes, back up again, and then it’s gone.
I love you because you make me want to write about you constantly. I love you because you make me a better me. I love you because you let me feel, and for a while I forgot how to do that. I love you because you showed me how to love. I love you because I give myself to you completely, and you give me yourself back.
(Source: skin-n-bones)
This morning I woke up to the sun in my eyes and there is nothing worse than waking up in the middle of a good dream and realizing it was just that. It’s reality slapping you across the face letting you know that your life is still shit, exactly where you left it. My hands are tied behind my back. You’re in the kitchen making coffee but you stopped drinking that shit months ago. I think you just like the way it makes everything smell. Warm and familiar and something you just can’t let go of.
It’s almost one in the morning and I am exhausted. I left your house an hour ago and on the drive home I smoked a stale cigarette and couldn’t find a song that made sense so I drove home in silence. I have this kink in my neck I can’t get rid of. I don’t remember eating anything today. I like how your hands are twice the size of mine and the way your breath always smells like fruit. I will spend hours with you but the second I leave I miss the comfort of your body against mine underneath all of your covers. There is a warmth I find in you that doesn’t exist anywhere else.
(Source: skin-n-bones)
I never really tell anyone how much they mean to me because I’m always scared that saying things out loud makes them permanent, concrete, forever; and everyone’s kind of scared of forever. But lying here alone in my bed at 12:15 am in your shirt with the ceiling fan on for white noise I realize that I miss you entirely. I have a knot in my back and too many split ends and I’m thinking about quitting smoking and there’s nothing more I want right now than you here with me, and I think that’s such a beautiful thing.
