rule one: I am most likely not the greatest person you will ever meet.
damn near the worst.
I live in a place behind back’s
hiding in the space equal distance from both your ears in that one space
you will never actually know what looks like
unless I lie to you
and tell you it’s beautiful
have you ever realized we have never once seen anything but reflections of ourselves
in the form of human shaped mirrors batting their eyelashes?
Have you ever realized the mirror might want to throw you against a wall later?
rule two: I’ve never entirely cared about your girlfriends
for the years you dragged me through thorns and intangible adolescent heart wrench
I didn’t care about them in “Go Fuck Yourself” quantities
for all the shades of love i possess in my lipstick drawer
vindictive get’s me the most drinks
rule three: When you say tell me a secret
I imagine you whispering it
hot and slow
like something I wouldn’t want my father to hear
like my secrets are draped in velvet lingerie
and dripping in the sweat that could be gasping for air between us
like my secrets are a goddam cabaret
thigh high stockings falling like speak easy
here’s a secret
most of my secrets are barely hanging on between my hip bone and hell
shredded flesh and satin
backbone and bare teeth just to make sure no one would ever find them in my stomach
I have swallowed enough red lipstick for the both of us
blood between my teeth I tell you
“I think about you a lot,
Don’t tell anyone”
rule four: if the crowning achievement of being
“the one you bring home for christmas”
I’d rather be your siren
the piercing sound in your ear
of the balance between carnal knowledge and red roses
that you know you cannot attain
but will jump out of a moving car to be road rash close to
the kind of lips you ache for in muscles you’d never knew you had until
the moment you forced yourself not to get into bed with me
the sopping wet lover you have seen only in the center stage strip tease of your dreams
before you have to wake up and lie
about why you are panting
to the cotton cheeked girl next to you that you kiss good morning out of routine
I’d rather be your fucking sex dream than your goddam mannequin
rule 5: I’ll always be good
rule 6: until I’m not
until the jukebox plays my song
until I fucking feel like it
Seven: you called me dangerous. It was an understatement. I am much better at ruin.
Eight: claws out cards on the table pushing every button until you give in or I can’t take anymore shots of whiskey
Nine: I drink whiskey like water and i’ve seen your poker face
Rule 10: “goodnight”
”—"You’re a terrible liar, dear" // Why I Don’t Make Anyone’s Life Easier -Mackenzie Pearce
rule one: I am most likely not the greatest person you will ever meet. damn near the worst. I live in a place behind back’s hiding in the space equal distance from both your ears in that one space you will never actually know what looks like unless I lie to you and tell you it’s beautiful have you ever realized we have never once seen anything but reflections of ourselves
“The thing about sadness is that it never warns you that it will come back. You’ll end up with an aching heart again, minutes after laughing, and it will feel like you found someone in your house; someone who you thought had left.”—W.J (via cascadingletters)
and then again, i knew that this is EXACTLY what would happen.
I think I have literally just severed whatever nerve connect the brain and the heart and I’m running on auto pilot. Because I think if I actually think about how badly this hurts, I would go into hiding in my own ribcage.
I finally told you how much it sucks when you do this, you tell me it hurts your heart, you run to my cab as it’s leaving to kiss me, you look so much like the movies. You know how to play the game, you know how to pull me in, and then when I’m out of sight out of mind, you disconnect like it’s nothing. and maybe it’s because you have plenty of people who want you these days, but i’ve been there forever. I never really left. I screwed up once and I’ve done my share of groveling and i’ve mended that wound of yours. My knees are scared from begging for your forgiveness. and just when you say you love me again, and I think I’ve done it, you turn around and do the same thing to me. If you were trying to prove a point, you can put down the knife. I get it. I left you once, and it feels like you’re leaving me now. If i ever doubted how much it hurts, I’m sorry.
I’m done baby. I love you. But unless you come around in a big way, I can’t let myself do this anymore. I can’t keep chasing ghosts. I can’t believe the I love you’s when they don’t hold up when you’re gone.
You are not the first person to do this. Just because you are rich and bored and decided that “gluing shit to other shit” was a fun thing for you to do and made you personally happy (good for you, girl) does not mean you get to put it into the art world as “art”. DADA already happened. Found Objects already happened. You are not the first person who brought “low brow” art into a gallery setting. This is not special or unique. Not that I don’t think everyone is entitled to making their own art and what makes them happy (I want to do art therapy for god’s sake) but don’t try and thrust all of that shit into the high art world and call it ground breaking. Educate yourself about what came before you, what you are appropriating, and realize, you should stick to other things.
and seriously, I know the alien, grunge, 90’s choker thing is kinda in for whatever reason, but it looks like Lisa Frank threw up all over your “art exhibit”.
Maybe this is what I like about the art world. Doesn’t matter how rich you are, you can’t buy your way into the art world.
“I almost thanked you for
teaching me something about survival
but then I remembered
that the ocean never
handed me the gift of swimming.
I gave it to myself.”—Y.Z, what I forgot to remember (via rustyvoices)