My beloved monster and me.

Kissing in Vietnamese

nouvelliste:

My grandmother kisses
as if bombs are bursting in the backyard,
where mint and jasmine lace their perfumes
through the kitchen window,
as if somewhere, a body is falling apart
and flames are making their way back
through the vessels in a young boy’s thigh,
as if to walk out the door your torso
would dance with exit wounds.

Ocean Vuong

(via lilac-hour)