💔

| tcc | Two years ago I fell in love with my teacher. This is the aftermath. (His eyes contain a contradiction, diction in contrast. A language of subtlety, sensuality, dominance. A technique that combines physicality with the art of listening. When he lowers his voice, something inside you is lowered into a shallow grave.)

[forbiddenwithhim-blog]

When You See Your TC in a New Outfit

[shez-a-dove-deactivated20161204]

who are u in a group of friends like what’s your Role

[7thblacksheep-deactivated201907]

The quiet, but outspoken one that doesn’t like meeting new people. The one obsessed with sex.

[favoritelatina]

Same lmao

[the-art-teacher-blog1]

I want to know...

- what his bedhead looks like - what he looks like when he’s painting - how his voice sounds when he’s sleepy - what his favorite song is and why - what he looks like when he cries - what his kiss feels like - how it feels to fall asleep with him holding me - what his hugs feel like - what he looks like with glasses on - how his first heartbreak felt like - who his first crush was - who he currently loves and cherishes - what he looks like in a suit and tie

[dreamingofmytc]

I may not post regularly, but my love for my tc will probably never die… *sighs*

[holycatharsis]

older men who are very intellectual are the sexiest thing ever to me 😍😂

[inflection-in-comatose]

A letter to my TC

A day does not pass where I do not think of you. Our relationship grew so much toward the end of the year, and it seemed as though every day we were breaking new barriers, reaching new places of understanding with each other. On the last day, I waited under those stadium lights, under the harsh adoration of that summer night. No goodbye, no “We’ll stay in touch”, no hugs or laughter. I waited until your shadow slipped into the dark and through my hands.

A part of me was taken that night. My chest aches when I remember how you assured me that we would have a proper goodbye, you would see me, you said, “I always see you.” All of my dreams led to that moment–that wild hope of us sharing success, sharing a last glance, sharing something worthwhile.

Every poem I wrote was a confession, every song I sang a hymn of adoration–even in the last hour. And the tender moments we shared? Were they all for nothing? When you held my hand, were you somewhere else in heart? When your voice softened to sugar, was that merely a coincidence?

I am Hamlet, facing action and consequence, Prufrock, knowing too well the music from a farther room, and Gatsby, building my life upon a dead echo. I am a character type, a common downfall, a plot device. I am devastated.

I wanted nothing more than to read the last page of our story, to watch the film end, and the screen fade to black. This is my confession, my letter to you. I love you like June rain, and I wear my hair back every day, just the way you liked it.

[inflection-in-comatose]

I'm obsessed with his carpenter hands Ahhhhh

[alwaysunrequited-deactivated201]

my tc mentioned a band he likes on thursday and ive been listening to them for 2 days now and i actually love them what even am i

[deactivatedddd999999999-deactiv]

When you say something stupid in front of your tc

[discolor3d]

[cithaerons]

for my final project i will be disappearing into the mountains

[dangered]

[dangered]

[trappedangel-deactivated2017061]

[trappedangel-deactivated2017061]

[trappedangel-deactivated2017061]

[trappedangel-deactivated2017061]