The first boy I kiss doesn’t write. He doesn’t understand why my bedroom walls tell stories that are sixteen years too long. He does not write novels on my spine with his fingertips.
The next boy I kiss calls himself a fan of mine, and I find him flipping through the notebooks in my childhood bedroom, reading the words that I throw at strangers but am too afraid to say out loud. My stories are bigger than me, and I fear that if I let them out I will become nothing but a hollow girl with ink beneath her fingernails.
The next boy I kiss tastes like typewriter ribbons and yesterday morning’s coffee. “Your a writer,” I say. “I’d know those shaking hands and tired eyes anywhere.” We spent the night writing sonnets with our tongues, but when I read love poems written to her over his shoulder, I quietly button my shirt and leave, not a single sentence trailing behind me.
The last boy I kiss is the reason I stay up until four in the morning spilling ink instead of blood and I read love poems to him over the phone despite my shaking hands and unsteady lungs. We sat on rooftops chain smoking and screaming poetry at the sky, but now I spend Friday nights with a pack of matches until every word I wrote about him falls like cigarettes ashes."
— Kissing Boys That Taste Like Ink And Spitting Fire In Motel Sinks // heartofthebitter-mindofapoet (via heartofthebitter-mindofapoet)