¿Has oído hablar del sitio al que van a parar los calcetines que se traga la lavadora? ¿o de la dimensión en la que se esconden los mecheros? Apuesto a que no te imaginas a dónde van los tornillos en cuanto se te caen de la mesa y tocan el suelo, o esa monedita que se te resbala de la mano. Quizás nunca te preguntaste dónde aprendió el alambre del pan de molde sus dotes de camuflaje en la encimera de la cocina. Supongo que ni siquiera te has imaginado que las llaves visitan un lugar desconocido cuando intentas encontrarlas, o por qué los agujeros negros tienen predilección por los capuchones de los bolis BIC. Yo siempre me pregunto estas cosas; pero más me interesa encontrar esas horas perdidas entre posts, reblogs y likes. Larga vida a Tumblr.Y ahora vayamos en busca de la aventura, aquella caprichosa seductora
fireduende:

I think  it’s time to blow the scene
    Knowing how to be solitary is central to the art of loving. When we can be alone, we can be with others without using them as an escape.
Please don’t get tired of me.

It happens every time. People lose interest in me. They get tired of me. Suddenly, they don’t bother hitting me up anymore. The conversations become shorter. They forget about me and I just become a distant memory. I wonder if it’s my fault sometimes. But then I realize that people never stay in my life. And there’s nothing I can do about it.

(Fuente: w0ahpaigexo, vía alchemistdreamer)

    

1.
I say, ‘I am fat.’
He says ‘No, you are beautiful.’
I wonder why I cannot be both.
He kisses me
hard.

2.
My college theater professor once told me
that despite my talent,
I would never be cast as a romantic lead.
We do plays that involve singing animals
and children with the ability to fly,
but apparently no one
has enough willing suspension of disbelief
to go with anyone loving a fat girl.
I daydream regularly
about fucking my boyfriend vigorously on his front lawn.

3.
On the mornings I do not feel pretty,
while he is still asleep,
I sit on the floor and check the pockets of his skinny jeans for motive,
for a punchline,
for other girls’ phone numbers.

4.
When we hold hands in public,
I wonder if he notices the looks —
like he is handling a parade balloon on a crowded sidewalk;
if he notices that my hands are now made of rope.

5.
Dear Cosmo: Fuck you.
I will not take sex tips from you
on how to please a man you think I do not deserve.

6.
He tells me he loves me with the lights on.

7.
I can cup his hip bone in my hand,
feel his ribs without pressing very hard at all.
He does not believe me when I tell him he is beautiful.
Sometimes I fear the day he does will be the day he leaves.

8.
The cute hipster girl at the coffee shop
assumes we are just friends
and flirts over the counter.
I spend the next two weeks
mentally replacing myself with her
in all of our photographs.
When I admit this to him
we spend the evening taking new photos together.
He will not let me delete a single one of them.

9.
The phrase “Big girls need love too” can die in a fire.
Fucking me does not require an asterisk.
Loving me is not a fetish.
Finding me beautiful is not a novelty.
I am not a fucking novelty.

10.
I say, ‘I am fat.’
He says, ‘No. You are so much more’,
and kisses me
hard.