To you, I’ll act coy, shy, mysterious; I’ll be a captivating flower that has not yet bloomed, full of promise, a captivating tease at what could be yours, what you’ve wanted for so long.
To you, I’ll open. I’ll crack like a piece of firewood, ready to be set ablaze. I’ll share the most intimate details of my deepest, innermost self with you, the same way we share Thai food and our bodies. You will learn my secrets, my fears, my lifelong dreams, the things that make my heart race, how your cologne drives my mind into a frenzy.
To you, I’ll be beautiful. You’ll become a carefree child again, alive with smiles and laughs when you’re with me, and I will do the same for you. You’ll look at me with passion, courage, respect, reverence, with love. I’ll come to be a new being to you, the object of your heart’s affection, a cheesy shining beacon coming closer with every backstroke through the ocean.
To you, I’ll be revealed. I promise I’ll become the singular beauty in the eye of you, the beholder. My body will become a playground for your endlessly curious hands, a canvas for every fantasy, every suppressed urge you wish to paint upon me. You will be uncharted land that I must explore; you are an ocean of passionate turbulence, a lake of serene sensuality. Your every touch is an uproarious revelry, my every kiss an uninhibited display of fireworks.
To you, I will give my world. It will all become yours, in its entirety. You can have the vibrant, lush springtime grass: we can stroll in it together in our moments of intimacy, as you grasp my hand in yours, as my eyes close when I lean over to kiss your cheek. You can have the tempestuous storms that come when you anger, and when I yell; you can have the subsequent rainbow, as well, that accompanies the passing of the storm, when you try to win me over with your silly dances and goofy grin. And when I look at your dirty blonde hair as you compliment the color of my dark brown eyes, I can’t help but smile; you catch this moment of weakness, laugh, grab me and force a kiss on my lips, and the sun comes out again. You can have the sun, too, in all of its brilliant, glorious intensity.
To you, I will play my song. I will be the quiet strings, the emotional woodwinds, the explosive brass. You are the strict percussion, the iron-fisted snare, the strong timpani, the backbone of the orchestra. I will lay beside you on your couch, or sit next to you at our favorite restaurant, looking at you with the deepest adoration; you will wrap your arm around me as I put my head on your strong chest, and I will hear your thunderous, pounding heartbeat beginning to slow.
To you, the color will begin to fade out of our beautiful blue sky. It will all become a mere silhouette of what it once was. The flower that had opened up to your sunlight, that had thrived so beautifully, will begin to wilt. The highs will not be as high, the lows will deepen until they are merely dried up rivers, missing the cool and powerful waters that used to run so rambunctiously. Your touch will start to lose the fiery spark it once had as it held me down, as it ran through my hair, as it reassured me that everything would be okay in time.
To you, I will beg and plead. You will look down upon me, a tear in your eye, your voice breaking, as you look down at me on me knees, once so resolute, once so in love, so happy. I will regretfully give the space you have started to crave. It’s yours now. Everything can still be yours: my world, my body, my vibrancy. But you won’t take it from me any longer.
To you, I send a gaze when I see you from a distance at the grocery store, when I remember how your green eyes used to gaze upon me, too, with something more than indifference and dispassion.
To you, I will attribute my new strength, my sharpened ability to live and move on, my rediscovered happiness. I will become the bloom I once was.
To you, I wish the best. I wish you all of the love in the world, from whoever is lucky enough to give it to you.
To you, I say goodbye.
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The fact that you have to be some sort of wizard to put the string back into a hoodie once it comes out.
DIY beauty treatments.
My father was a 911-call taker. The worst calls he got were suicide calls where pretty much all he heard was someone immediately saying “hello, my name is John doe and I live at 123 abc Street and I’m going to kill myself…bang.”
This dangerously real replica of Arya Stark’s infamous “Needle” is, I think, capable of skewering little fat boys, impaling indignantly injured kids’ necks (and killing them), or using for some seriously epic shish kebabs. Probably don’t get this for a kid!