don't love me.love a butterfly.

the butterfly only knows how it feels to have wings.how it feels to kiss the petals that leave its nose glistening in pollen.the butterfly only knows how to whisper secrets made of spring,how to be beautiful without being loved...so don't love me...love a butterfly.

love.letter.

it's what we're all waiting for.a summation of what a woman is worth in a thousand words or less--a bunch of scribbled pages, bull-shitted, and left unsigned. and when it throws you to the same curb as another waiting for the same scrambled grammar, do you just lie there or jump into another car.do you fight for the middle of the oreo or do you just bite down its core, imagining each and every lick of its frosting seeping on the edge of your tongue, like a chiseled ice cube scraped from your heart, now melting your redbull and vodka.so here it is.one knee crossed over the other,and the ability to exhale because who the hell believes in love letters anyway.who the hell is sitting right next to you,open palmed,and naked.who the hell even cares,even more.

by:valentina

disturbia.

I used to love, love. its smell, the way it intoxicated my nostrils with every inhale, the way it left a precise footprint on my wrist. (I always said it was my favorite perfume.)

   I used to love, love. its linger, its touch. the way it held me intertwining eight limbs, crinkling necks, forming a sort of  awkward, lovely safe cocoon. (I always said it gave me butterflies.)

I used to love, love. its taste, the way it devoured my body leaving a hint of breath behind my neck, leaving with the most perfect signature on my lips. 

(I always said it was my favorite tattoo.)

I used to love, love. I used to. to. to.

by:valentina