a/n: so this poem is based on last summer. i haven't decided yet if i have any sort of claim to this story, and i'll probably take it down soon. again, i wrote this, but the story is not mine


violent masturbation is

long summer nights, filled with mosquitoes and friends.

truth circles, with eating disorders, cutting, and acceptance.

meal time with visits to other families,

and squeezing everyone we could at one table,

teasing each other, talking, laughing, studying.

violent masturbation is

double rainbows, all the way across the sky.

walking on the lakeshore, when we technically weren't allowed to.

long bus rides, sitting next to you,

leaning on you, being laughed at,

and falling asleep on your shoulder.

violent masturbation is

sitting in the living room, ditching.

listening to your heart beat with your arm around me.

talking for hours, about anything and everything.



violent masturbation is

the portuguese sala, late at night.

the piano in the next room.

telling you.

standing there, hugging.

making a promise i did eventually keep,

for you.

violent masturbation is

perhaps not my story to tell.

a secret. a tale

that i have no right to share.

but at the same time,

violent masturbation is


falling in love with you.