jennyeatsbabies.

The last.

Chelsea once told me that kisses were like candy, but it’s been too long and it’s hard for me to reminisce.

But I’ve never been so eager, so open and sometimes—sometimes I wonder if it was great or if I had just been so wanting. You fed me: drowned me in sweetness and lust and darker things and I forgot of the Vonnegut I was meant to read you—forgot to keep my heart in the glove compartment and I forgot that you were never mine to write of.

Debra asks me if I loved you, and it scares me that I don’t know if I do or if I don’t, but most of the time I think my heart is too stubborn to love a man who doesn’t read.

You tasted sweet and in your arms my winter melted like spring—but it was your hands: your hands that brought me home.

It hurt to thaw, but I was so well preserved the icebox never forgot when I came home. 

Everyone thinks I’m raw and bruised—everyone thinks you threw peaches when I was never soft. My father’s daughter was never meant to be born weak, and I—I sat at the poker table and bluffed a thirty year old out of his daughter’s lunch money and maybe, maybe I had it in me.

Your name feels bitter on my tongue, now—the memory of your taste like rotten fruit in Eve’s hands.

You will always be handsome, but my heart grew like seasons ever-changing and you were too stagnant to ever be safe.