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Pine-cones: the most legit
form of romance.
Whether you found it
in the backyard of your childhood
home
or bought it cinnamon-scented
from a store.
And books
and thoughts of books.
Eyelid kisses
and awkward goodbye hugs.
“We good?”
and two arms around me
at some odd a.m. hour.
And when you finally fall
from the pedestal
I put you on,
what will I see?
Will I still believe
it’s romantic?
When you smack my ass,
trace my curves,
brush your cold feet against mine,
place a hand on my sleepy back
and tell me about the other girls,
thank me for waking you up
to take her to work?
Will I call it love?
Or abuse?
Please don’t fall,
that way I’ll never find out.

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Cigarettes: How to Keep Your Guard Up Around Non-Smokers/122416

You promised me the world,
when the world wasn’t yours to give away.
You promised me everything,
when you had next to nothing.
A broken boy whose love
always had conditions,
I just forgot to see them,
until your love was no longer mine.
I’ve always thought
I could win you back,
that if I love you hard enough
you’ll forget not to love me.
You said you were gonna buy me a book;
you never ask me to leave
as I crawl into your bed some time before dawn.
Sometimes you hold me
so damn tight, I can’t move.
Or when you trace every inch
of my body with your fingertips,
interlace you fingers with mine,
make me feel alive,
perfect,
safe,
beautiful.
If that isn’t love,
then I don’t know what the fuck is.
A broken boy, trying so damn hard
to be a man.
I wonder if my love
will show you how to grow up.
Or will it keep you
broken?