How can a woman be expected to be happy with a man who insists on treating her as if she were a perfectly normal human being?
Oscar Wilde (via sugaringlesbian)
Sometimes I write about you
in the kind of filthy vernacular
a mother hopes her daughter
never learns.
So maybe it isn’t love,
but maybe it’s something—
sweet in the middle,
rough around the edges.
The kind where we kiss just before
we sink our teeth in.
After all, I am no sacred relic,
no uncovered altar:
I am not a place for pious hands.
Baby, I’m looking for a train wreck
—unkempt, unclean, unholy—
and I keep trying to make that
seem profound.
But the truth is,
I’ve got no room for poetry.
Not when my hangnail chest
goes hungry
at the mention of your name.
Not when the salt in the wound
is as much exodus as revelation—
now if you would just fuck me
the way you look at me
I might actually have something
to write about.

As If in Prayer, by Ashe Vernon (via latenightcornerstore)