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forgingevolution:

Illegal cute

(via forgingevolution-deactivated201)

durbikins:

Okay Banks did something fucking hilarious for once

(via iwantmybearsuit)

I want to talk about how small I felt, when you left. About the shame that washed over me as you got up deliberately, put your shoes back on beside the door, and left to go. Your feet that I had handled, smelled, the feet that I would have tickled unassumingly if given the chance—they walked straight out of my door that night and I haven’t seen them since. And you, by extension, you walked forever out of my life. 

It’s a hard thing to write about, trauma. How you had been there at times with me when I was going through it. You couldn’t see it, or if you did you were too polite to say anything, but when I reached out my hand to hold yours for the first time, and felt your thumb moving back and forth against mine, my eyes welled with tears.

Thank you. I have always wanted to say thank you. Thank you for being there with me then. I’m so sorry you had to go. 

In my apartment, when you left me for good, my shirt was dismantled—had been methodically unbuttoned by you minutes earlier. In haste before you left, I’d attempted to sling it back over my shoulders and try a button or two. I felt naked, wet, ashamed. I remember looking at the floor before you left, and uttering, “Go.” 

I have woken up every day for the past six months with the knowledge that I will never get to play with your hair again, or hear the sounds you make when I thumb your earlobe. 

Small gestures come back to me, like you laughing a little when I rebuckled your belt; the way you jerked me backwards by my shorts to zip them up for me; how I felt new and vulnerable but familiar with you all at once. 

How you listened to me tell you that I loved you, and you told me it couldn’t happen. How you continued to kiss me, even after that.

It’s a deep ache and physical longing that you’ve left me with. In my time spent alone, I’ve been practicing keeping my legs open, and watching to see what it looks like. It looks red and wet and puckered, swollen with blood, against my skin. And the sounds that come from me are quiet, like an animal with a low, desperate howl. 

I walked past that bench tonight where you and I first held hands, where we watched the family trying to fish while listening to “Yeah,” by Usher, where I felt how alive you were against me, warm and golden. I still try to see us sitting there, and sometimes I even want to stop for the memory, but the bench is usually taken, so I walk past it.