This One’s All For You | Lora Mathis  (via lora-mathis)

Now I’m
wondering
how many more people
I have to touch
before your name
is completely scraped
off my tongue.

Pulling Feathers | Lora Mathis (via lora-mathis)

(via lora-mathis)

He was all slapped red cheeks
and too short jeans.
I kissed him until his mother came home
and laughed at our backwards sweaters
and lack of breath.

He was all “pick you up at eight”,
see him at ten.
Loving him was a wait -
waiting for his car to pull up,
waiting for his call,
waiting for him to feel the same.
I thought he was saying “I love you too”
when he talked about knee highs and
his parents going out of town and
no one ever driving by the field by his house,
but all he was saying was
“I want to fuck you.”

He was all innocent curls and ’60s rock -
a mama’s boy that had not outgrown rebellion.
My thighs were another way to stick it to his parents
who, upon seeing us sucking the marrow out of each other,
winked and presented me with my very own
“daughter in law” nickname.
The poor boy.
The last thing he’d wanted was the hickey
I left on his neck to spell “forever.”

He was all timid shakes and coffee breaks
with never a penny in his pocket.
I shared my cup of frozen yogurt with him
in return for space in his bed.
A season with him was a hot period of
drunken insomnia and game shows.
Beautiful and full of late night loneliness,
but sad, so sad.
That boy spent hours staring at the sky,
willing himself not to cry.
His last text read:
The birds may know about the heaven
we look for with ladders,
but I’ll never know unless I jump.

I am all scars and broken parts,
a collapsed choo choo train that ran out
of steam months ago, but
somehow keeps chugging along
to toot my horn at boys on the street,
though my poor little heart tells me
it can’t bear the weight of yet
another passenger.

Choo choo, I say.
If you’re the boy pulling
feathers out of your spine,
I’ve been looking for you.

I’ll Be Well-Rested Once I Turn Twenty-One | Lora Mathis (via lora-mathis)

(via lora-mathis)

Mozart composed his first symphony
at eight years old.
Shakespeare was married at eighteen
and completed his first play at twenty six.
My grandmother carried life in her hips at fifteen
and had three declarations of young love
by the time she was nineteen.
My grandfather had barely gotten over puberty
when he took his first trip-
a tromp over unknown countryside with
a gun on his back and a
stained uniform as his only clothes.
I am twenty and all I feel like doing
is falling asleep until the
Earth’s completed
another revolution of the sun.

Chuck | Lora Mathis  (via lora-mathis)

If I love you
it means I’ll be there
even if you’re bleeding apologies
on the sidewalk
even if the mess of you
gets my shoes dirty
even if I’ll end up
hopelessly
scrubbing you out
for weeks.

Safe To Say A Lot’s Going Through My Head When I Think About You | Lora Mathis (via lora-mathis)

A part of me wants you
in the most innocent way possible:
taking off your shoes in my bedroom,
climbing under the sheets and watching
whatever’s in my Netflix queue,
barely even touching
as we talk about our days until we
fall asleep with our
clothes still on.

But another, hungrier part of me
wants you unbuttoning your shirt
before you’re completely through my door,
falling onto my bed, and
scrambling to make your fingers
unbutton my shirt faster
Your mouth shaking out
my name the entire time.

"sext: you" - Lora Mathis (via miiasma-sky)

(via lora-mathis)

sext: it is a humid night in july. we undress each other in the back of your car and form one mound of sweaty flesh. sext: fireflies fall on your skin. i kiss the trail they leave to find your light. sext: we share a bath and come out dripping each other. sext: the atomic bomb is not as loud as my heartbeat when you lie next to me. sext: come over, i want to taste moonlight when it’s licked off your skin. sext: we undo each other and come back together in one hot flash of light. sext: you burn over everyone else’s touch. sext: they dust me for fingertips and find nothing but your claw marks. sext: the sound of your teeth digging into my bare skin and my moans are the most beautiful duet. sext: you are 48% water. i would be happy to drown in you. sext: you are the poem i will spend my whole life trying to write.

You’re The Monster Under My Bed That My Mom Keeps Checking For | Lora Mathis (via soggypoetry)

Edited/extended this at the urge of a close, wonderful friend. (via soggypoetry)

(Source: lora-mathis, via lora-mathis)

The first time you kissed me,
you asked: “Is this what love’s supposed to taste like?”
I giggled and bit “yes” into your bottom lip,
even though I had no idea.

I was only fifteen,
trying to pass for twenty,
with a baby face that you couldn’t possibly
have been fooled by.

Still,
when I told you my real age,
you went quiet and stood in the corner for long enough
that I felt like I had grown into someone
you could undress without guilt.
“We can’t do this,” you said, your hands in my hair.
In reply, I left a purple bruise on your neck
in the shape of “I know.”

At school, my friends ask me if the best part about
loving you is knowing someone who can buy me alcohol.
I tell them that all of your kisses taste like wine,
so I have no need for it.

When I relay this story to you in the parking lot,
you laugh and let me take a gulp of you,
big enough that I’m drunk for the night.

No, the best part about loving you
is that you showed me parts of my body
that I didn’t even know existed.
The best part about loving you is that
you took me home to meet your mother,
even though she thought I was
an illegitimate child that you’d hid from her.
The best part about loving you is that
I never want to stop,
even though each time I feel my raw cheeks
after kissing your beard-covered mouth
on the playground,
I know I should.

Your 30th birthday fell on the same day as my 15th.
When I went shopping for your gift,
I stood in the men’s section
for hours after my mother dropped me off,
staring at the things you were supposed to want.
I saw no place for my baby fat amongst
pressed slacks and shirts.
The sales lady asked me if I was lost,
checked her calendar and said: father’s day is in three months, hun.
I wanted to scream that age was just a number,
that I was old enough to know better
but could not imagine knowing a love any better than you.
I wondered on which of my birthdays I would be told
I was now capable of understanding love.
If wondered if you would be able to find anything
close to it in the “young adult’s” section.

"You always looked good in red," I said,
as I straightened the tie I’d decided on.
But I wanted you to look good in me,
to not appear like a monster holding me down in bed.
I did not want my friends to think our love was “dirty”
or for teachers to study me because they had “heard the rumors.”

When I convinced myself that the amount I felt for you
was too much to be disputed,
I got sloppy and
forgot to delete your texts.
“I love you?”
“My tongue still tastes you?!”
“I can’t feel without you beside me??!”,
my mom screamed as I lay crying.

The last time I saw you,
you were tense in your seat,
separated from me our lawyers and
my mother’s protective arm.
“Confess your guilt”, your lawyer urged.
“No one will give you any sympathy.”

But on the stand you looked at me and said:
she was half my age,
but I have no regrets in making her half of me.

Sad Girl | Lora Mathis (via lora-mathis)

(via lora-mathis)

Sad girl takes a walk to clear her head and never comes back. Sad girl evaporates. Sad girl nicks herself on a needle and discovers she is full of smoke. Sad girl’s epitaph reads, “Died in bedroom after forgetting to leave.” Sad girl choking on the lump in her throat. Sad girl not being able to Heimlich her words away. Sad girl still. Sad girl stolen. Sad girl staring off into space mid-sentence. Sad girl having to remind herself to breathe. Sad girl not so sad anymore. Sad girl just kidding when she said that. Sad girl as the punchline. Sad girl unsure of the joke. Sad girl talking about her almost “goodbye”s and going deaf at her mother’s sigh. Sad girl just selfish. Sad girl just young. Sad girl burden. Sad girl not easy to care for. Sad girl not wanting to feel like this anymore. Sad girl grow up. Sad girl shut up. Sad girl not enough. Sad girl falling into difficult love because it’s all she’s known with herself. Sad girl turning over and hoping her shaking doesn’t wake them. Sad girl staying even when it gets really bad. Sad girl toying with the idea. Sad girl disappointed that nothing happened. Sad girl imagining getting into a car crash. Sad girl not looking both ways before she crosses the street. Sad girl just a statistic. Sad girl just a smokescreen. Sad girl so sick of saying “I’m fine.” Sad girl okay. Sad girl smiling. Sad girl making herself laugh. Sad girl more than her sadness. Sad girl no longer ashamed of her emotions. Sad girl not asking for your pity. Sad girl only needing a phone call. A text message. A hand to hold. A reminder. A “I’m still here. I’ll come in. If you let me. If you let me.”

lora-mathis:

Ways I Hurt Myself To Hurt You, Lora Mathis
An ongoing photo series exploring people’s destructive habits following breakups. 

(via saorsainn)

lora-mathis:

Ways I Hurt Myself To Hurt You, Lora Mathis
An ongoing photo series exploring people’s destructive habits following breakups. 

(via saorsainn)

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