Join me as I muddle through the murky waters of recovery.
Slowly unwrapping the gift,
Eyes filled with trepidation,
You see a dirt stained encyclopedia.
The book is called:
How to love a broken girl.
There is no dedication,
The spine worn from careless handling.
Corners ripped off pages,
Ink bleeding from past spillage,
You put the thing aside.
“We’re writing a new book.”
I was homesick.
But not for our home. Not for the couch or the bed or the mess of living that is unique to it.
I was homesick for you.
For the glimmer of your eyes on a laugh. The confident way you touch me. The stability of your presence.
I was homesick for you.
For the casual way you tear down my walls. The way you challenge me to be better. The easy way you love me. The way you make it seem easy to love me.
I was homesick for you.
How happy I am to be home again.
He asks me to stay,
but it sounds more like a command.
Doesn’t he know that wild ones
don’t take orders well?
Originally,
The word premium
Meant an award given for a specific act.
And I’m wondering what prize I could possibly offer
For loving someone so broken.
(Inspired by daily prompt)
get a good look now.
before you know it this dress will
hit your floor. and baby you know
i’m not wearing anything beneath.
rip this corset with your teeth cause
i can’t take it any longer.
make it dirty and rough around the edges,
a pile of tearful orgasms and lace.
[via daily prompt]
i look up and see the sun.
it caresses the lace and i know i am one
of the luckiest girls alive.
i look up and see the detail.
it curves in meticulous perfection and i fail
to see anything more beautiful.
i look up and see your face.
it exists in my memory and i trace
it until it floats away.
