Photographer: Paige Six

You having sex in the morning, your love was foreign to me

It made me think, maybe human 

not such a bad thing to be…’

But I just laid there in protest, entirely fucked….

it’s such a stubborn reminder; one perfect night ‘s not enough





(𝙳𝚎𝚊𝚛 *darling,

𝙸’𝚖 𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚜𝚘𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚐𝚊𝚒𝚗 𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚒𝚗𝚔 𝚟𝚒𝚗𝚢𝚕, 𝚒𝚝 𝚛𝚎𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚍𝚜 𝚖𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚢𝚎𝚊𝚛 𝚠𝚎 𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚝𝚘̇𝚐𝚎𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚖𝚊𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚞𝚙 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚕𝚘𝚜𝚝 𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎 — 𝚘𝚗 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚘𝚏𝚏 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚊 𝚌𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚕𝚎.

𝙷𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚞𝚌𝚒𝚗𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚊 𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚟𝚊𝚜𝚒𝚟𝚎 𝚕𝚘𝚟𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚎𝚡𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚜 𝚒𝚗 𝚌𝚊𝚌𝚘𝚙𝚑𝚘𝚗𝚘𝚞𝚜 𝚜𝚑𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚙𝚞𝚛𝚙𝚕𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚐𝚛𝚎𝚎𝚗, 𝚊𝚗 𝚘𝚙𝚝𝚒𝚌𝚊𝚕 𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚌𝚝𝚛𝚞𝚖 𝚘𝚏 𝚑𝚘𝚕𝚘𝚏𝚒𝚕𝚖 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚖𝚎𝚕𝚎𝚘𝚗 𝚌𝚘𝚕𝚘𝚛𝚜 𝚜𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚙𝚒𝚗𝚔 𝚒𝚗 𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚌𝚎 𝚊𝚜 𝚚𝚞𝚒𝚌𝚔𝚕𝚢 𝚊𝚜 𝚒𝚝 𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚗𝚜 𝚋𝚕𝚞𝚎.

𝙸𝚝 𝚛𝚎𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚍𝚜 𝚖𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚞𝚝𝚎𝚜 𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚠𝚎𝚎𝚔𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚜 𝚠𝚑𝚎n 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚎𝚢𝚎𝚜 𝚠𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚐𝚛𝚘𝚠 𝚋𝚒𝚐𝚐𝚎𝚛 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚊𝚍𝚍𝚎𝚛 𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚎. 

𝙸𝚝 𝚛𝚎𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚍𝚜̣ 𝚖𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚕𝚊𝚔𝚎𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚐𝚘𝚕𝚍𝚎𝚗 𝚑𝚘𝚗𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚢 𝚍𝚛𝚒𝚙𝚙𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚑𝚘𝚗𝚎𝚢 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚌𝚒𝚙𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚘𝚏 𝚋𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚔𝚏𝚊𝚜𝚝; 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚒𝚝𝚜̣ 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚛 𝚢𝚘𝚞, 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚊𝚞𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚌 𝚢𝚘𝚞, 𝚢𝚘𝚞’𝚟𝚎 𝚖𝚊𝚗𝚊𝚐𝚎𝚍 𝚑𝚘̇𝚕𝚍 𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚘 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚛𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚊𝚙𝚘𝚕𝚘𝚐𝚒𝚣𝚒𝚗𝚐 —


— 𝚏𝚕𝚘𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚊𝚝𝚖𝚘̣𝚜̣𝚙𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎

𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚖𝚊𝚛𝚜𝚑𝚖𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚘𝚠𝚜 𝚒𝚗 𝚖𝚢 𝚌𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚕.


𝚃𝚑𝚎 ‘if‘ 𝚋𝚎𝚝𝚠𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚎𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚕𝚍𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚖𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚋𝚎. 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚛𝚞𝚎 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚋𝚎𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚍 𝚖𝚢 𝚘𝚋𝚜𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚌𝚘̇𝚜𝚖𝚒𝚌 𝚛𝚊𝚢𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚌𝚒𝚊𝚕 𝚛𝚎𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚟𝚒𝚝𝚢:

𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚖𝚒𝚜𝚎𝚜 𝚜𝚞𝚗𝚔𝚎𝚗 𝚒𝚗 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚗𝚎𝚎𝚍𝚕𝚎𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚠𝚊𝚖𝚙𝚢 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚝—

—𝚎𝚗𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑 𝚝𝚘 𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚕𝚖 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚑𝚘𝚕𝚎 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚕𝚍.


𝚃𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚗𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚊 𝚋𝚘𝚝𝚝𝚕𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚊 𝚋𝚘𝚝𝚝𝚕𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚠𝚑𝚒𝚝𝚎. 𝙸’𝚟𝚎 𝚖𝚎𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚒𝚊𝚕𝚒𝚣𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚐𝚛𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚋𝚞𝚛𝚐𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚢 𝚐𝚕𝚊𝚜𝚜. 𝙸 𝚋𝚞𝚛𝚗 𝚌𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚕𝚎𝚜 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚖𝚜 𝚎𝚊𝚌𝚑 𝚠𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝙸 𝚞𝚜𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖 𝚊𝚜 𝚟𝚊𝚜𝚎𝚜 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚙𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚜. 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚊𝚕 𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚖𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚢  𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚟𝚎𝚜 𝚖𝚎 𝚚𝚞𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚞𝚖𝚕𝚢 𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚐𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚐𝚑𝚘𝚜𝚝 —

—𝚛𝚊𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚠. 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚖𝚎𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚢.

𝙱𝚎𝚌𝚊𝚞𝚜𝚎 𝚊𝚜 𝚋𝚎𝚊𝚞𝚝𝚒𝚏𝚞𝚕 𝚒𝚜 𝚒𝚝 𝚖𝚊𝚢 𝚋𝚎 𝙸 𝚍𝚘 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚋𝚎𝚕𝚒𝚎𝚟𝚎 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚘𝚛𝚖𝚊𝚕 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎. 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚘𝚗𝚕𝚢 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚑𝚊𝚞𝚗𝚝𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚑𝚘̇𝚞𝚜𝚎 𝚒𝚜 𝚖𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚘𝚗𝚐𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚒𝚎𝚜 𝚖𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚛𝚢 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚢𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐. 𝙸 𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚗𝚍 𝚖𝚢 𝚗𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝𝚜 𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚕𝚢 𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚜̣𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚎𝚔𝚜 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚑𝚘𝚛𝚕 𝚘𝚏 𝚖𝚢 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚛𝚝𝚒𝚙𝚜. 

𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚜, 𝚋𝚘𝚔𝚎𝚑 𝚑𝚊𝚕𝚘𝚜, 𝚜𝚖𝚞𝚍𝚐𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚜𝚖𝚒𝚕𝚎. 

æ𝚜𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚝𝚒𝚌 𝚋𝚕𝚞𝚛𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐—

—𝚛𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚏𝚞𝚕 𝚖𝚘̣𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚜 

𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚏𝚘𝚌𝚞𝚜̣.

𝚃𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎’𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚢𝚘𝚞, 𝚊𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚖𝚎, 𝚊𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚎, 𝚖𝚊𝚢𝚋𝚎, 𝚍𝚘𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚒𝚜 𝚎𝚗𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑 𝚝𝚘 𝚔𝚎𝚎𝚙 𝚖𝚎 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚜𝚕𝚎𝚎𝚙𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚝 𝚗𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝. 𝙸 𝚝𝚎𝚕𝚕 𝚖𝚢𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚏 𝙸 𝚜𝚒𝚖𝚙𝚕𝚢 𝚕𝚘̣𝚟𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚞𝚗𝚛𝚒𝚜𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚊𝚖 𝚘𝚋𝚜𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚖𝚢 𝚝𝚎𝚕𝚎𝚜𝚌𝚘𝚙𝚎, 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝙸 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚟𝚒𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚖𝚢𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚏 𝚘𝚏 𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐.

𝙸 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍𝚗’𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚜𝚝𝚎 𝚖𝚢 𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚠𝚊𝚢 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝙸’𝚖 𝚌𝚎𝚛𝚝𝚊𝚒𝚗 𝚋𝚢 𝚠𝚊𝚢 𝚘𝚏 𝚎𝚚𝚞𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚜—


—𝚋𝚎𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚞𝚛𝚝𝚊𝚒𝚗 𝚘𝚏 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚜 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎’𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚖𝚎, 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎’𝚜 𝚊 𝚗𝚎𝚠 𝚢𝚘𝚞.

𝙸 𝚊𝚜𝚜𝚞𝚛𝚎 𝚖𝚢𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚞𝚗 𝚒𝚜𝚗’𝚝 𝚜𝚑𝚒𝚎𝚕𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚖𝚎 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚊𝚕𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚗𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚟𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚢 𝚋𝚎𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚍 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚋𝚕𝚊𝚣𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚏𝚊𝚌𝚊𝚍𝚎. 𝚃𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚎𝚗𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚏 𝚕𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚠𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍𝚗’𝚝 𝚑𝚒𝚍𝚎 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚖𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚘𝚛𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚜 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚊𝚒𝚛 𝚘𝚏 𝚞𝚜 𝚠𝚑𝚘 𝚕𝚒𝚟𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚒𝚕𝚢. 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛. 𝚊𝚏𝚝𝚎𝚛. 𝚒𝚗 𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚝𝚛𝚞𝚝𝚑.


— 𝚃𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝙸 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍𝚗’𝚝 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚜𝚎 𝚏𝚞𝚕𝚕 𝚎𝚌𝚕𝚒𝚙𝚜̣𝚎𝚜 𝚝𝚘̣ 𝚜𝚎𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚕𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚠𝚑𝚒𝚌𝚑 𝚋𝚞𝚛𝚗

𝚛𝚎𝚍, 𝚢𝚎𝚕𝚕𝚘𝚠, 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚋𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚋𝚕𝚞𝚎.

𝙿𝚎𝚛𝚖𝚎𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚎 𝚜𝚢𝚕𝚕𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚎𝚜 𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚎𝚝𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑 𝚖𝚢 𝚕𝚢𝚖𝚙𝚑𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚌 𝚝𝚒𝚜𝚜𝚞𝚎. 𝙰𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚙𝚘̣𝚎𝚖 𝚝𝚘 𝚠𝚛𝚒𝚝𝚎 𝚑𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚝𝚘. 𝙸𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚑𝚊𝚍𝚘𝚠 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝙼𝚘𝚘𝚗 𝚖𝚢 𝚜𝚘𝚞𝚕 𝚜𝚒𝚝𝚜 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚒𝚝𝚜 𝚘𝚠𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚝𝚜. 𝙸𝚝’𝚜 𝚗𝚘 𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚝𝚎𝚕𝚎𝚜𝚌𝚘𝚙𝚎𝚜 𝚊𝚝 𝚊𝚕𝚕. 𝙸 𝚐𝚎𝚝 𝚎𝚖𝚘𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚊𝚕; “𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚝𝚛𝚞𝚝𝚑”. 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚛𝚞𝚝𝚑? 𝙸𝚝’𝚜 𝚝𝚠𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚜 𝚊 𝚌𝚘𝚛𝚔𝚜𝚌𝚛𝚎𝚠—

—𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚛𝚞𝚝𝚑 𝚒𝚜 𝚠𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚒𝚝 𝚊𝚕𝚕, *darling,

𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚠𝚎 𝚕𝚎𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚔𝚢 𝚏𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑.

six pm)


“But I’m a constant headache, a tooth out of line.

They try to make you regret it, 

you tell them, ‘no, not this time.’

It’s just a constant headache, a dead-pet device.

You hang me up unfinished, with the better part of me 

no longer mine…”



 –six pm *3:15

(Song Credit: Joyce Manor)

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