“you don’t get it. everything i loved, everyone i cared about is gone. i don’t have anyone else to live for. don’t you understand? i can’t lose you too.”

thank you for taking a risk on me — on us, even though you hate gambling, and the odds were never in our favour.

i hope you know you stopped the world from falling apart. i hope i loved you enough.

“Will you stay?”

“I shouldn’t.”


“Because you deserve better.”

“So this is what we can’t have.”

“I’m glad you got lost.”

“Well. Easy mistake to make,” she said. “Might do it again.” A very, very long pause. She opened her mouth to fill it, then changed her mind and didn’t. She was shivering again.

“Shouldn’t,” he said finally. “But I hope you do.”

they will not write about us because darling 
we’re not in love 
and we both know that poems ought to be about lovers 
or brothers 
not best friends halfway in the middle 
god, i’d never kiss you
but our hands fit like puzzle pieces and your smile makes my heart sing and you cried when you said you love me 
voice thick with fear and awe and i knew then i could break you and that terrifies me because you deserve better but i would die for you

when i was thirteen my bedroom window looked out on the big dipper every summer and it made me feel safe but if every star in that constellation went out i’d still have your hands smoothing a brush through my hair (your eyes shine brighter than those distant suns anyway)

we are not the stuff of legends in this world where it’s only love if you fuck the stories people want to hear end in a kiss not a high five or a fistbump but if i’ve got you i don’t need to make history

and while you do not kiss away my tears you let them seep into your shirt and to me, that is just as good

She’s got a heartbeat like thunder,
so strong and so sure.
He doesn’t know how to tell her
that his heart stopped beating a long time ago.

this is the way love stories are told. 
step one:
you are strangers,
two souls flitting by each other
in hopelessness,
in silence, 
without a glance.

step two:
you are friends, 
and his laugh is something you earn,
something you place into your back pocket
for safekeeping. 
his eyes find yours in a room,
and it feels like safety.

step three:
you are falling,
tumbling through this abyss they call love 
like a butterfly whose wing has been damaged beyond repair,
just a girl with your aching heart tattooed upon her sleeve
as you will him to not just look at you,
but to see you.

step four:
you are crashing,
hopelessly and hopefully and all the in-betweens,
and his laugh reverberates across your chest 
like a goddamned earthquake,
and his touch feels like lightning crackling across your skin,
and you hide your blush behind ducked heads and fluttering fingers.

step five:
you are gone,
and it feels like fire and ice,
like heaven and hell,
and his eyes light up when he sees you, 
and you lean into his touch as it caresses the small of your back on instinct,
and he doesn’t know.
he doesn’t know.
he doesn’t know.

this is the way love stories are told, 
but then why does it hurt?

“did you think of me at all? did i trouble your sleep?”

she is born of war. she speaks the language of battle and there is steel in her smile. her hands are made to hold on too tightly and to kiss her is to feel like the universe is resting on the tip of your tongue and to dance with her is to dance in the light of a collapsing star.

i am rubble, i am debris littered in the corners of
morning dry eyes. i am the weathered rocks of the acropolis — 
i sleep and dream of shoe soles beating lines into my skin and
if all you give me is time all i will do is erode.

oh, darling.
against the pull of a supernova i am nothing but ash.

Don’t ask me about her lips. How they ruby and burn. Stretch full over white teeth, taut like a drum. I want her to make music of me.

Don’t ask me about her hands. The way they are scarred with stories. How they slide down her legs as I stare. Mouth cotton; eyes hungry.

Don’t ask me about my hunger. The way my stomach drops tight when she looks at me. The way my palms itch for her bones. Don’t ask me about my fear. The way she comes to me.

How I open my mouth to say “Yes” and it comes out “I’m sorry.”

“With fire in her eyes and sweet promises in the curve of her lips the world could burn in her wake and you would still tread through the ashes to follow her.”

One clap, two clap, three clap, forty?

By clapping more or less, you can signal to us which stories really stand out.