Holding the door for a girl is showing that chivalry isn’t dead. 

Helping an elderly woman across the street is chivalrous.

No. It’s fucking being a good person.

You were stuck in your head the first time he kissed you. He created storm signals in your brain stems, daring you to run away. You cowered under the wing of his arms. You pretended that his teeth weren’t made of electrical wires. You thought you wouldn’t get burned. But your lips were scorched and charred with fire, and his was perfectly assembled into two. He told you that he loved kissing the sun coils of your lips, and you tried to forget that his tasted of toxin.

You were crying the first time his mouth curved around your neck. You always told yourself that your existence was based on whether he still loved you, and you created a storm cloud in your chest while trying to get him to stay. He wounded your bones under those sheets, he made you think that you weren’t made of lightning, he kissed your mouth raw until you could no longer remember your own taste. The first time you bruised, he said, “What a waste.”

You were giving yourself to men who had palms the size of moon craters. You wanted someone to swallow your alcohol in his teeth. You wanted him to taste the stars of your bitterness. You burned yourself on their mattresses, you clamped your teeth together until their empty promises were sinking under your throat, you kissed their mouths until their skins crawled. One guy planted wild flower kisses near the ribcage of your swollen heart. You pushed him away before his love tore you apart.

You swore to yourself that you never wanted another guy to touch the soft ache of your bones. You promised to yourself that the next guy won’t be any different, but - the electrical charges of your insides collapsed the first time he kissed you. His lips tasted of tore down bullet holes, and the pain of your first tattoo. He stamped his name on your lips without contradiction, and you loved how he kissed with so much passion.

You said to yourself that you just never met a boy who loved like that. You never had a boy who placed his stars on your forehead because he thought you were an enigma. You never had a boy who interlaced your fingers together underneath the sheets. You never had a boy who kissed your lips good morning. And maybe you loved the way he showered the soft ache of your bones with his favorite poetry. And maybe you loved how he didn’t complain when he did the laundry. And maybe, maybe, maybe, you’re falling but you don’t want to be.

You were smiling the first time he tangled your limbs on his bed, the first time he left a love bite on your neck, the first time your fingertips felt feather light with his lazy kisses, the first time he gathered your second hand parts in his chest. He said, “You are my favorite thunderstorm, but for so long, you’ve been drowning me.”

You said, “Your lips are made of oceans, and I’m already sinking.”

—    "But I don’t know how to say those 3 words or show it." || m.a.p. (via rhapxody)

(via maddieatsbrains)