sometimes, the question is the answer.

rather than dousing yourself with cheap perfume wait for the cleansing tide to sweep the musk of hurt away

like trying to stuff worms back into a can.

your care is not written in words i can understand.

it saddens me how much praise we lavish on men who tread within the lines we draw as if they were not merely behaving exactly as they should

in time, as the blanket of fate unfolds, you will learn to marvel at the brilliant patterns woven by an out of sight master.

this is the slow kind of work the kind that smoulders beneath the surface of my heart-mind lava in waiting the kind that doesn’t feel...

beneath the placid surface a rapidly boiling ocean

dictate that what you can’t give i should get from someone else but i must admit you have somewhat of a monopoly on me

i must say, it gives me immense satisfaction, the way you can’t seem to stop kissing me whenever you leave.