❤️🖤 | Bug | 🖤❤️

I don't know how many more times I can handle this. I don't handle failure well, making mistakes. I don't handle not being good enough. I hate that my dad was having a great day, in a great mood, until the part of my day when I came and opened my mouth. 
          
          I'm so close to shutting down. I'm not funny, not smart, and I'm going to look back and cringe at every word that comes out of my mouth, according to him, so why should I even bother? 
          
          I'm not good enough. I'm not, I never have been. I fail at being a good support, a good sister, a good daughter, a good role model, a good pet owner, a good ANYTHING. 
          
          It'll be better this way. A quiet me is an unobtrusive me, and from the way he looked at me, I've intruded quite enough. 

Cheese is some nasty stuff like you guys let your milk rot and harden and mold for like years and are like "yeah this is the shit" 
          
          Im not buying it i think you all are nuts cuz its lit oily and every kind has a new weird texture and it stinks and tastes like how a landfill smells 
          
          Cheese was totally invented by the shadow government to troll me in particular I think

Mon amour, I see how much you hurt. I wish there was more I could do, more I could say. I wish I had the answer, the perfect string of words to fix all your problems and make you truly happy in that non-temporary way. I wish you could see you the way I see you. Beautiful, captivating, wonderful, full of drive and love and the light in my life. Mon soleil, literally. You showed me warmth, life, peace, acceptance. You showed me the shadow of my mother at my feet isn't all there is, that I'm not destined to a life of fear and anxiety and sharp edges. You gave me a vision, you gave me hope. I love you. I hope, even though I can't be there, can't fix everything for you, that this helps a bit. You deserve the amount of good you've brought into my life tenfold. 

J'essaie très fort de réprimer la partie de moi qui veut être obsédée par le sexe parce que je SAIS que j'ai mon examen final sur lequel je travaille. De plus, ce n'est tout simplement pas le moment. Mais ça n'arrête pas mon cerveau. J'ai peur d'avoir trop apprécié nos taquineries mutuelles... oups.

Oh cool, il est chez lui. Maintenant, viens chez moi. Plus précisément, mon lit.
          
          Je suis clairement switch, mais je commence à penser que pour lui, je suis plus service top qu’autre chose. Je veux commencer par son oreille, embrasser sa mâchoire, son cou, sa poitrine, son ventre. Je veux le voir s’énerver quand je rate l’endroit où il veut et embrasser ses cuisses intérieures. J’ai envie de le taquiner jusqu’à ce qu’il soit frustré et supplie, puis lui donner ce qu’il veut jusqu’à ce qu’il soit surchauffé et dépassé.
          
          You know I'm down bad when it took me this long to write this because I kept losing my focus imagining it.

J'espère qu'il sait qu'à chaque fois, c'est lui qui occupe mes pensées. À chaque fois, ce sont ses mains, sa voix, ses hanches, sa poitrine. Mes hormones ne se sont jamais autant moquées du moment du mois. Le simple fait qu'il existe me rend sauvage. Son esprit est fascinant, son énergie est contagieuse, et son corps est une addiction que je ne veux jamais briser. Il ne sait même pas à quel point tout ce qu'il fait et dit m'excite. Que veux-tu dire par le fait que je suis dans mes moments les plus bas pour être excitée, je ne suis JAMAIS excité à ce moment-là, et pourtant je me sens là, comme si j'étais en semaine d'ovulation parce qu'il me veut contre lui ?
          
          J'adore ça.

I want to take pictures of everything he sends me. I want to keep them, store them away, make sure they're never taken from me. I'm practicing restraint, though. Lots and lots of restraint. 
          
          Je veux le détruire. Je veux le faire frissonner, mais pas à cause du froid qui me tourmente. Je veux le toucher, l'embrasser, le respirer comme le supplice exquis qu'il est. J'ai acheté son parfum, et cela devient rapidement insuffisant. Une chemise qui sent comme lui n'est pas lui. Un oreiller qui sent comme lui n'est pas lui. L'écho de sa voix dans mon esprit n'est pas lui. Et ça ne sent même pas vraiment comme lui, n'est-ce pas ? Ça sent les produits chimiques qu'il porte, et ça rend les choses encore pires.
          
          Il me rend folle, et je ne peux m'empêcher d'adorer ça.

I wish someone owned my name like Pae owns Kai's. He hates the name Malakai, but when she says it, it's a prayer. Power. "My name means nothing until she speaks it. Until she claims it as her own." 
          
          I despise my name. Hate it as much as the only woman who says it. I wish it was reclaimed. I wish I could see it as beautiful. I wish someone could convince me.
          
          Paedyn is a pretty name. It calls to me, a bit. 
          
          I'm talking nonsense again. I guess, my point is, I want someone to own my name like that, make it worth hearing, but I've heard it so long with such hatred and disgust that I'm not sure I even want it to be the one worth hearing anymore.

He makes my head spin in a way no one else ever has. I can go all day fine, and then he calls at their lunch and my world explodes all over again. I wish everyone else would be quiet. I wish lunch was forever, so I could just sit and listen to him talk. I wish all our conversations over text were calls, so all the things he has to say, I could hear straight from his lips, from that beautiful, perplexing mind of theirs. 
          
          Ten, fifteen, twenty minutes if I'm lucky. Then he's gone, and my head is buzzing and my heart is throbbing, but I wouldn’t have it any other way. The stillness I'm left with when he's gone makes me miss him more. 

20.5 books in 42 days. Im gonna do it guys, im gonns finish :3