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"he used to call me poison."

- (via yoursixwordstory)

But now, I am his antidote.

Source: yoursixwordstory
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"Please, help me. One more time."

- six word story.

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Nearly three years ago we met and I’ll never forget the patchy memories I have.

We were at Johnny’s. I wasn’t going to go, but I felt I should for some reason.

I wore that shirt. You wore that dress.

We made love in someone else’s bed.

Early in the morning I left and late the next night I said “I’d like to see you again.”

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"Paralytic again. This has to stop."

Six word story.

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"I gave you too many chances."

Six word story.

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"Lonely fingers. Lace yours with mine."

- six word story.

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He only kisses her cheek because she pushes it toward him and purses her lips,
He looks at the ground while he smacks his lips at the air,
Only touching her cheek with his, but her lips on his cheek.

He doesn’t put his hand on her waist because she hasn’t asked him to,
Not out of chivalry but out of fear,
Fear that he’s overstepping a line and he’ll be labeled,
Labeled as an opportunist, or a misogynist, but of course he won’t be.

It would be perfectly normal but not in his eyes, for his lack of confidence destroys any normality that should come with a usual social interaction,
But he does wish.

He does wish that the corners of their mouths might graze briefly, just once,
And that they might share eye contact about it afterward, saying no words but a thousand things in the way that they look at each other and he’ll wish that she’d take his feelings from that brief, physical and innocent interaction that he thinks of her daily.

That he cares for her, though they do not speak regularly, nor are in each other’s company often.

And that’s only hello.

Goodbye is a hug and he keeps it brief,
Careful not to over-linger for exactly the same reasons as before,
He bends slightly at the waist and leans in with his collar bones as not to appear intentionally over intimate.

He says goodbye to the ground and tells her that it’s good to see her,
He calls her ‘mate’ as not to come off affectionate with words like ‘darling’ or ‘lovely’ or ‘sweetheart’ and he walks away wondering.

Wondering what it would have been like had he looked her in the eye and told her the thoughts he has,
Innocent and sweet, though they are,
He doesn’t tell her for the same reasons as before, and he beats himself up.

He beats himself up for his lack of courage,
His lack of confidence,
His probable lack of appeal,
His negativity,
His anxiety,
His everything,
And he’ll never be wholesome.

He’ll never be wholesome, happy nor satisfied because he doesn’t have the guts to go after what he desires, no matter what it is.

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Afternoon.

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I have to come to terms that she’s sleeping next to him tonight,
Tomorrow we’ll carry on and pretend that it’s alright,
Everything’s fine with me
We’ll lay together and I’ll try to imagine how he held her,
Just so I can hold her differently and she’ll be able to tell us apart,
And when she feathers my lips with hers I’ll pray she’s doing so differently than she does with his
I wish those eyes she made for me were just for me but I’m sharing
And I have to be okay with that, because I’d rather have half of her than none at all

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It’s that beautiful orange kind of light that we like. The kind where we can sit next to each other without a word between us and just look at it, let the light wash over us with ten strings on our laps; six on mine, four on yours.

We don’t have to hold hands, or look at each other. We’re just in the right place at the right time. We always are.

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I’m selling four prints here.

http://depop.com/en-gb/ajrdurham

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Playing around.

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Home.

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Walked past the London pride parade on my way to work. Nice to see a lot of bright colours, smiling, singing and dancing in contrast to the bad weather. Such a privilege to live somewhere where we can freely love whoever we want.

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Don’t play with matches.