I don’t want your Sunday best. I don’t want you to dress yourself up and make believe there’s no dirt underneath your fingernails. I want your Monday morning. Your stress served on the side of your coffee, and your insecurities as dark as the liquid. I want the brutal tone in your honesty and compassion. I want you to grab the life out of my eyes with the taste of your tongue dancing in my mouth. I want last night’s taste to be cotton mouth in the morning, and I won’t stop swallowing. I will take it with my pride, and hand my worries over to you on a silver platter and hope you know what do to with them. I want to throw trust at you like knives and to know they will never end up in my back. Because I love you, you idiot. And love is never pretty. But damn, you sure are pretty.
Sunday Best (via gimmeapetname)