reblog if your icon is the thing you transform into under the full moon
I am having these odd dreams where I cut out my heart
and nail it to the door as a warning. Maybe because
he did not mean his kisses. Or because the price of milk
is rising and mothers cannot afford to feed their children.
Or maybe it is because I walk behind couples
who are clearly not couples anymore. Their swinging hands.
How tender their want is, like a cut that is half-healed.
I haggle over pennies with the cab driver and kiss
strange boys with big hands. I do not like going to the
laundromat and had to wear my little black dress to a dentist
appointment last week. I sit on the bus and try to find
a love poem in everything. Maybe this is hope.
I want 0 responsibilities and a lot of lingerie