(via belov-ed)
She was
Warm milk.
Dripping.She was
Silken caramel.
Churned and thick.She was
Honey.
Bottle twisted,
Contents seeping.And,
She was lace.
Dozens upon dozens
Of intricate weaves.But,
She has
An expiry date.
Soured and curdled,
She is wasted.
(via dyke-recovery)
It begins here. This voiceless story. The migration from my body to yours, my flesh to your own, my being to what lies between your bones. I take pen to paper like I long to take your skin in with my lips. Your marvelous canvas, that uncharted terrain — I want to trace the contours of your…