Spilled Ink (Currently undergoing updates.)

lionessandbird:

Don’t tell me you’ve changed your mind about everything. I will not take you to be sincere. I’ve taken to drinking tea to soothe my battered soul when I think about you. It can barely mask the way you make me feel.

                Loving you is like drinking coffee. When I think of your breath on my cheeks, it’s as if I have downed an entire pot of the lurid, black liquid. My heart beats an everlasting rhythm; no. Scratch that. There is no rhythm to its beating. It flutters wildly, a bird rapping, helplessly, against the walls. My fingers tap things, restless. They tap whatever has the misfortune of wandering hopelessly into their vicinity. My hands shake, with an endless fear in the carpals that if they stop, your hands will love another’s. Butterflies catch fire in the pit of my stomach, positively alluring in the dim light. They fly, fly away to meet your eyes, but, alas, they disintegrate before ever reaching my lips.

Don’t kiss me. You’ll let them out, and they’ll die of heartbreak; their delicate wings, twisting, convulsing in the unforgiving flames, would meet the beauty of your skin, only to die before consuming the full effect of this fragile world we live in.

Don’t touch me. You’ll pull blood from my pores, turning the icy pools to crimson when they taste your oxygen. My skin smells like you. I hate when my mother pours the old coffee grounds into the sink, without washing them down the drain. I have to clean them out, unable to fully wash the black specks, fleas, from my hands for a while. Just like you; your smell is so sensually stimulating, yet you work your way in between the folds of my knuckles, getting stuck under my fingernails.

I absolutely adore it.