The Pretty Man 

*

For a man of your stature

You’d think I’d be used 

To standing in the span

Of your arms, less confused 

Less unsettled, not unnerved 

Not so throughly dwarfed 

By the sudden lack of air in my lungs 

That you cause

Your hands fit my waist, your chin 

 on my shoulder,

I always start at that small

 touch of your breath 

We murmur like lost lovers, like

 Star crossed the others 

Whose very existence tempts death 

In this darkness, I am allowed 

To believe all you’ve said 
There is a warmth in faith awry

In your arms there is a belief 

That no lack of conviction or

Fear in the night can steal from me

And all I need, is sacrifice 

One hour against the dawn, is all 

To turn my face and close my eyes 

And not watch the light fall on our wall 

To watch instead your fingers move 

In my hair as I’ll blind disrobe 

Behind me is a lone shadow 

You cast none-  

Pretty words rarely do. 

.

The Pretty Man 

© Yusra 

01.11.2017 .

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Here’s to pretty men who turn your heads inside out. ❤️
Also.. Good morning, my lovelies 😘

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Becoming 


It will hurt. 

It will be a burden. 

It will pain your bones to 

carry your thoughts 

-it will lessen 

You will endure 

You will survive 

Bent is not broken 

– It’s okay to have been numb 

But you’re alive 

And you’re fighting 

And you will

Become 

-y 

Pray 

A loss in one part of the world is no smaller than a loss in any other. Every life snatched, is a loss. Every life taken, is an outrage. Every justification provided is a lie. 

Watching the news is so painful, but this is what is happening. This is the world we live  in. And not only is it tragic, but also frustrating to be unable to help in any way. 

Pray for London. Pray for Syria. Pray for the Rohinhya. For all those who are suffering in Somalia, Sudan, Nigeria… If you can do anything to help, anything to protect, please do. If you cannot, please pray. 

Love, 

Cookie ❤ 

Fallen 

Some men do not carry your heart safely in their chest. They keep it in their pocket, shuffling their daily things around it. Sometimes they leave it lying somewhere. Other times, they forget and jam a pack and a lighter on top of it, and remember many cigarettes later. And you don’t care. Because no matter how bruised it gets, you’re happy knowing that they’re still there to carry it at all.
At least it hasn’t fallen out of their hands. Yet.