I came home smelling like rain and cigarette smoke and teenage love and my mother grabbed me and said, “sweetheart, don’t you fucking dare fall in love.”
And I smiled and stuck my hand in my pocket and touched the note you had written where you said that you were 22 degrees Fahrenheit and I was the sun and I could melt you with my fingertips.
And I came home smelling like vanilla vodka and the lavender flowers you had bought for me and smudged lipstick
and my mother noticed the way your t-shirt hung off me and was on inside out, and the way you made me give it back 2 days later and she brushed my hair out of my eyes and said, “darling, don’t you fucking dare fall in love.”
And I kissed her cheek and tried to put back together the necklace you had bought me last night, I twirled it around my fingers, they’d still taste like your skin if I put them in my mouth.
And I came home smelling like thunderstorms and fire and breakup songs and cheap vodka that made me throw up and blood and rose thorns and smudged makeup dripping down my face
and my mother just looked at me
and three weeks later I met a boy who wasn’t so cold and let me keep his shirts to sleep in when I missed him and never let anything break, especially my heart. And I came home every night smelling like everything safe and good and happy, telling myself that I better not dare fall in love. I better not dare fall in love. I better not fucking dare fall in love.
romaincrisis
theartofmadeline
origamiaround
2087
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areudirty
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