"If sexism is a gun, men hold it. And sometimes it recoils and hits them and that HURTS…but not as much as getting hit with the bullet."
— Laura, my perfect goddess friend (via lagertha-lodbrok)
girls are the most gorgeous beautiful amazing evil psychotic creatures in the universe
"Some changes happen deep down inside of you. And the truth is, only you know about them. Maybe that’s the way it’s supposed to be."
— Judy Blume, Tiger Eyes (via larmoyante)
the amount of celebrities i would offer my body to without second thought is astounding
"One of the most useful things you can learn as an adult is how to say “thank you” and mean “fuck you”."
"As I mature I realize that I talk to myself more, I correct my own mistakes, I follow my own advice. Less people are around and that has allowed me to connect with myself. I’ve become one of my own best friends."
— (via awakeningapril)
i don’t ONLY care about myself. i care about like 5 other people. and animals.
"All the hardest, coldest people you meet were once as soft as water. And that’s the tragedy of living."
— Iain Thomas, I Wrote This For You (via larmoyante)
"I know girls who are trying to fit into the social norm
like squeezing into last year’s prom dress
I know girls who are low rise, mac eyeshadow, and binge drinking
I know girls that wonder if they’re disaster and sexy enough to fit in
I know girls who are fleeing bombs from the mosques of their skin
playing russian roulette with death; it’s never easy to accept
that our bodies are fallible and flawed
but when do we draw the line?
when the knife hits the skin?
isn’t it the same thing as purging,
because we’re so obsessed with death,
some women just have more guts than others
the funny thing is women like us don’t shoot
we swallow pills, still wanting to be beautiful at the morgue,
still proceeding to put on make-up,
still hoping that the mortician finds us fuckable and attractive
we might as well be buried with our shoes,
and handbags and scarves, girls
we flirt with death every time we etch a new tally mark
into our skin
I know how to split my wrists like a battlefield too
but the time has come for us to
reclaim our bodies
our bodies deserve more than to be war-torn and collateral,
offering this fuckdom as a pathetic means to say,
“I only know how to exist when I’m wanted”
girls like us are hardly ever wanted you know
we’re used up and sad and drunk and
perpetually waiting by the phone for someone to pick up
and tell us that we did good
You did good.
(I know I am because I said am, my body is home)
so try this
take your hands over your bumpy lovebody naked
and remember the first time you touched someone
with the sole purpose of learning all of them
touched them because the light was pretty on them
and the dust in the sunlight danced the way your heart did
touch yourself with a purpose
your body is the most beautiful royal
fathers and uncles are not claiming your knife anymore
are not your razor, no
put the sharpness back
lay your hands flat and feel the surface of scarred skin
I once touched a tree with charred limbs
the stump was still breathing
but the tops were just ashy remains,
I wonder what it’s like to come back from that
sometimes I feel a forest fire erupting from my wrists
and the smoke signals sent out are the most beautiful things
I’ve ever seen
love your body the way your mother loved your baby feet
and brother, arm wrapping shoulders, and remember,
this is important:
you are worth more than who you fuck
you are worth more than a waistline
you are worth more than any naked body could proclaim
in the shadows, more than a man’s whim
or your father’s mistake
you are no less valuable as a size 16, than a size 4
you are no less valuable as a 32A than a 36C,
your sexiness is defined by concentric circles within your wood;
wisdom
you are a goddamn tree stump with leaves sprouting out:
reborn"
like squeezing into last year’s prom dress
I know girls who are low rise, mac eyeshadow, and binge drinking
I know girls that wonder if they’re disaster and sexy enough to fit in
I know girls who are fleeing bombs from the mosques of their skin
playing russian roulette with death; it’s never easy to accept
that our bodies are fallible and flawed
but when do we draw the line?
when the knife hits the skin?
isn’t it the same thing as purging,
because we’re so obsessed with death,
some women just have more guts than others
the funny thing is women like us don’t shoot
we swallow pills, still wanting to be beautiful at the morgue,
still proceeding to put on make-up,
still hoping that the mortician finds us fuckable and attractive
we might as well be buried with our shoes,
and handbags and scarves, girls
we flirt with death every time we etch a new tally mark
into our skin
I know how to split my wrists like a battlefield too
but the time has come for us to
reclaim our bodies
our bodies deserve more than to be war-torn and collateral,
offering this fuckdom as a pathetic means to say,
“I only know how to exist when I’m wanted”
girls like us are hardly ever wanted you know
we’re used up and sad and drunk and
perpetually waiting by the phone for someone to pick up
and tell us that we did good
You did good.
(I know I am because I said am, my body is home)
so try this
take your hands over your bumpy lovebody naked
and remember the first time you touched someone
with the sole purpose of learning all of them
touched them because the light was pretty on them
and the dust in the sunlight danced the way your heart did
touch yourself with a purpose
your body is the most beautiful royal
fathers and uncles are not claiming your knife anymore
are not your razor, no
put the sharpness back
lay your hands flat and feel the surface of scarred skin
I once touched a tree with charred limbs
the stump was still breathing
but the tops were just ashy remains,
I wonder what it’s like to come back from that
sometimes I feel a forest fire erupting from my wrists
and the smoke signals sent out are the most beautiful things
I’ve ever seen
love your body the way your mother loved your baby feet
and brother, arm wrapping shoulders, and remember,
this is important:
you are worth more than who you fuck
you are worth more than a waistline
you are worth more than any naked body could proclaim
in the shadows, more than a man’s whim
or your father’s mistake
you are no less valuable as a size 16, than a size 4
you are no less valuable as a 32A than a 36C,
your sexiness is defined by concentric circles within your wood;
wisdom
you are a goddamn tree stump with leaves sprouting out:
reborn"
— Mary Lambert (via sexualityandfeminismandgender)
