a taste of the world

is-this-the-end-my-dear:

1-million-sleepless-nights:

theperksofbeingseamus:

Tumblr, teaching more about rape culture than they do in school

.

As a rape victim my feels are killing me.

377

I laid in bed this afternoon
Alone yet warm
I reminded myself I had my own heat
As today transforms into tonight
With the sun at rest til tomorrow
I stretch my body in all directions
Waiting for no one at all

poisonpawz:

themagicianthatneverfailed:

dr-kara:

heretherebdragons:

katbot:


“Start on January 1st with an empty jar. Throughout the year write the good things that happened to you on little pieces of paper. On December 31st, open the jar and read all the amazing things that happened to you that year.”

I’m reblogging this again, to remind people that reblogged this earlier in the year with the “I’M GOING TO DO THIS” comments. Now, here it is. I’m reminding you. You said you would do this. Now join me and start this Tuesday.

I genuinely love this idea. I am going to do this. I will post pictures of my jar and everything. 

oh wow this is a beautiful idea

doing this

I actually did this this year, it’s almost time to open it


Just a reminder to myself to do this

poisonpawz:

themagicianthatneverfailed:

dr-kara:

heretherebdragons:

katbot:

“Start on January 1st with an empty jar. Throughout the year write the good things that happened to you on little pieces of paper. On December 31st, open the jar and read all the amazing things that happened to you that year.”

I’m reblogging this again, to remind people that reblogged this earlier in the year with the “I’M GOING TO DO THIS” comments. Now, here it is. I’m reminding you. You said you would do this. Now join me and start this Tuesday.

I genuinely love this idea. I am going to do this. I will post pictures of my jar and everything. 

oh wow this is a beautiful idea

doing this

I actually did this this year, it’s almost time to open it

Just a reminder to myself to do this

376

Will the sun rise without me this Christmas
As the darkness seems endless in an empty home
I cover myself in old words from old books that don’t know what day it is
I never knew loneliness until the world pointed it out for me
Will I rise with the next day
Or will it leave me to slumber

375

Her olive skin smoked under the moonlight
Was it the heat from her breast or the warmth in her eyes?
Sweat dripped down his eyelash, a vehicle for his lust
He blamed her for seducing him
Yet she had done nothing but breathe

breebat:

a professor once asked me
to share a koan with the class
and so i recited my favorite:

in a monastery full of monks,
Eshun was the only nun

having noticed her beauty
and fallen in love with her
one monk wrote her a letter
asking if they could meet privately

in front of the entire monastery

374

He told me he couldn’t kiss me
A hallowed interaction
I wanted to hold him closely
Instead he held my gaze
He kept me at a safe distance
Yet I never knew my danger
I am a kamikaze mystery
In mesmerizing brown eyes

373

Adapted from Martin Luther King, Jr.’s Letter from Birmingham Jail - blackout poetry


the hard, brutal, Negro Leaders the city fathers refused to engage
good-faith came In certain promises made
the humiliating promises
we were the victims of a broken promise

hopes blasted the shadow of deep disappointment upon us
our very bodies decided to undertake self-purification
able to accept blows without retaliating
to endure the ordeal of jail

Easter
Christmas
withdrawal
change

run-off, run-off
we could be delayed no longer

action seeks crisis
fosters tension
forced to confront tension
I confess I am not afraid of the word “tension.”
violent tension
nonviolent tension

to rise from the bondage of myths and half-truths

372

I wake up some days not loving who I am
And on these days that come just a little too often, I look at my hands.
I remember days when I thought they were perfect.

These delicate angels that defy fragility; they belonged somewhere.
I remember thinking I would be a hand model.
A
t the fragile age of 10, I knew what I was put on this earth for.
It was meant to be.
My perfect hands could do anything.

McDonald’s would want them in their Big Mac commercials.
Revlon would want my healthy cuticles to model nail polish
I could learn sign language and open up worlds of possibilities.

I remember the day I shared my dream with my mother,
“Mom, I’m going to be a hand model,” I said with appropriate gravity.
“But, honey,” she replied, “your middle finger is crooked.” 

I wake up some days not loving who I am
And on these days that come just a little too often, I look at my hands.
The shattered dreams they hold with every imperfection—
The broken what ifs and crooked middle fingers
More crooked with every nervous crack of a knuckle
And syncopated snap, snap
with every fuck you and broken promise
I forget what it’s like to trust

I wake up some days wanting to go back to sleep
Back to my dream with my perfect hands
that with a touch could turn plastic to steel
turn thieves to Robin Hoods, turn the weary to the wise
with my perfect hands that
gave youth to the old, clarity to the young
sanity to the misunderstood and
p
romise to the dreamers
hope to the hopeless and 
a smile to the ones who have already given up

back to my dream where
my lips aren’t sealed, but my hands are
a cupped offering of sweetness, concentrated
But honey, your middle finger is crooked
And I wake again in a warm sweat.

My perfect hands are lonely
And impatient
They want to be warm again
Like they used to be when they were perfect
Whole, like when they would hold their happiness.

I wake up some days not loving who I am,
and on these days that come just a little too often, I look at my hands.
But on some days, I forget about my crooked middle finger.