Do not touch your body with bad intentions. Rub your belly when it is full. Stroke your soft skin. Hug yourself, even if it’s silly, because it feels nice. Pleasure yourself. Do not touch your body with bad intentions. Do not pinch at the fat on your stomach. Do not scratch at your skin. Do not hate the shell you’re encased in.
that taking pills wouldn’t fix me and taking six
instead of the prescribed two definitely wasn’t
going to speed up the process. But I met a boy
who tasted better than Prozac. He made it easier
to get out of bed. He kissed me like I was
alive, like I wasn’t empty, like maybe there was
something left inside me. He made my bones
ache less when he touched me. He made it okay.
When my world was crashing down around me,
he picked up all the pieces. When I stopped
breathing and tried to tear open my wrists to
find the last little bits of happiness left in my
veins, he was there to lace me back together.
But he left and I haven’t washed my hair in three
weeks. My mother was right. I met a boy who tasted better than Prozac (via extrasad)
I think it’s about time
you spit me out
You’ve kept me tucked
behind your lip
for so long that you
have yet to notice I’ve
lost my flavor.
But I have.
While you were busy
tonguing my memory,
I grew into
And if you were to put me
in your mouth now,
I’m not so sure you’d
like the taste.
I may be too tart.
Too biting. Too quickly turning bitter.
I am no longer concerned
with staying sweet for you,
not as desirous of wanting
to please you.
So spit me out,
you deserve to forget
like I have. Spit Me Out | Lora Mathis (via lora-mathis)