we are the young and dying breed



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paintdeath:


Thomas Struth - Galleria dell’Accademia I, Venice 1992 (1992)
21383
"

Touch me, I tell him.
Do you feel the child in me?
Can you taste
cotton candy and bubblegum
when your tongue’s on my thighs?

He says,
You don’t seem like you’re twenty.
And I am left wondering
how twenty seems,
if “acting my age” should mean
scrapping my habit of scratching
where there’s no itch.
But I don’t want to act like something else
because I like the way
I can get him to look at me,
thirsty and pants throbbing.
I like how simply changing
in front of him
causes him to salivate.

Boys my age never know
how to touch.
They’re too nervous, too new
at what they do.
He has nine years on me and
unhooks my bra with steady fingers.
I like thinking that he has
studied hard to know how
to make me shake.
When I moan and moan and
then exhale a “thank you,”
he replies, “I’ve been doing this for awhile.”

I remind myself that this
is not the sort of thing
to regard as permanent.
I know he likes me because
he correlates youth and foolhardiness,
and so I play the giggling
light-hearted girl in front of him.
Lolita, I almost say,
call me Lolita.
I work myself into his sort of fantasy-
with bouncing breasts and soft skin,
I am too smooth to remind him of
his other women.
I know that the women he
kisses taste like commitment,
that they pick up his clothes
off the ground and
wash his dishes because
they want him to brand them as “wife.”

When he falls asleep after
finishing on top of me,
I plead with myself not to
lean into his chest.
You are not meant to
see this as anything more, I say.
Still, no matter how much
the logic in me begs me not to,
I fall asleep with my arms
stretched in his direction.

I am still young.
I have not yet learned
that he will touch me
as much as I want,
but he will never
love me.
It takes me so long,
months and months
of irreplaceable youth,
to realize that he
will never settle down
for anyone,
not those women,
not me.

Six months in,
while his unshaved chest
rises and falls beneath his sheets,
I slip out,
a half-naked ghost
walking down the street,
and leave a note saying:
I didn’t want you
to only fuck me,
I wanted you to
love me.

But I didn’t know what to
convince you with
besides my body.

"
Your Sort of Fantasy | Lora Mathis   (via m-i-l-a)
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kalories1:

good
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agreeing:

Mt. Fuji at 18:31
17387
"I lapsed into my pathetic cut-off period. Often with humans, both good and bad, my senses simply shut off, they get tired, I give up. I am polite. I nod. I pretend to understand because I don’t want anybody to be hurt. That is the one weakness that has lead me into the most trouble. Trying to be kind to others I often get my soul shredded into a kind of spiritual pasta.
No matter. My brain shuts off. I listen. I respond. And they are too dumb to know that I am not there."
Charles Bukowski, Hollywood  (via falcade)
971
4266
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heat mirages from the california that never was

wewereajigsaw:

we drove down to the flatlands near the airport and spent the whole
night watching planes take off. she said she was tired. i was too.
we weren’t sad. we were tired of godlessness. we looked for heaven
together in a cluster of clouds and the body of a celestial 747 
fuselage, silver and long…

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