Me: Am I still pretty?
Him: You’re always the prettiest. Even if your face is janked up to fucktown right now.

My freckle is officially gone.

My face looks absurd, but it was a success.

Now pity me and hit up my askbox. I’m not allowed to exercise or go out in the sun or do other fun things.

She checks herself for bruises the next morning and, when there aren’t any, she’s sorely disappointed.

Because bruises to her are a reminder. And while just as temporary as the evening prior, they serve as proof until they recede back into the skin. Like the way their mattress has slowly begun to wear into the shapes of their sleeping bodies, the indentations retreating only into hints of their sleeping bodies by noon.

It’s not that she has an issue with memory. It’s more that she likes being decorated as if she were some sort of shrine to their dynamic, however briefly. And so she’s upset when she isn’t bruised. Because even though the marks fade much earlier than the memories, they’re somehow more tangible.

Whenever I see a picture on here of a girl with that sort of look in her eyes, it’s like something inside of me says, “whatever you want."

I’m a sucker for powerful gazes.

We are creatures of the wind. Wild is the wind.

Dear Riley Shy,

I am developing a crush on you.

You make this face a lot. It makes me wet. You’ve also got this little hint of a Southern twang going on. This also makes me wet.

I just thought I’d let you know.

Best,

Ivy

Either he’s just hit the spot or she’s just figured out the punchline to that joke he told at dinner.

The world may never know.

Either way, she’s saying “oh”.