Reblog this if you’d hang out with your Tumblr friends if you ever met them in real life.
Lol this was so cute. Actually I’ve met one of my tumblr friends/mmfd family member on my trip to NYC in feb. The lovely hohumi/ irisalandra ❤️ I would love to meet more people! :)
REBLOG IF YOU WOULD MEET THEM AT THE AIRPORT GATE AND RUN AT EACH OTHER IN SLOW MOTION, ARMS WIDE OPEN WHILE “AT LAST” PLAYS OVER THE PA SYSTEM
My favorite type of students are those who have kids my age who do their homework.
So they try to put the mother charm on me and ask not for help or direction, but if I can work on their assignment for them! HA.
LOL, fuck you, no.
- Uterus: oh you have a completely full day of activity??
- Me: don't
- Uterus: and a sleepover afterwards??
- Uterus: hardly any breaks??
- Uterus: wouldn't it be a shame
- Uterus: if something were to
- Uterus: happen
I am a red-eyed, punched cheeks teen when I fall for him. I have only found escape in long car rides and retreating further into myself. When I am in his arms, he says, “You don’t have to keep run away here. You’re safe.” I let those words keep me by his side while he roars at me for my mistakes. I let them keep me when he drinks in another room on Christmas Eve, leaving me alone with his family. I let them keep me even when I have no desire to keep myself. Two years later, I finally stumble out of his bedroom, a ghost with shaking fingers and no sense of who I am.
From another country, a nice boy texts me secrets until sunrise and tells me that the best way to fall for someone is to collapse into them totally. He talks about his childhood pain, his drunken walks, his suicidal highs, and urges me to the same. Carefully, I show him the bruises on my ribs, the stab marks on my thighs, the places I let others inside. Undressing with him is never literal. When he talks about dying inside of me, I leave him with a mouthful of apologies. He said, give me everything, all of your pain, but I could not stand to whither beside him, drowning in my past shame.
A few years later, I am walking beside a man with a pink, Easter egg head when he looks at me and says, You’re a mystery. What’s beneath all those layers? He’s trying to make learning how my body’s been handled seem like foreplay, but I can tell that he’s really trying to figure out how he can shape me. In his bedroom, he is so interested in me spilling poetry that he slits my wrists and says, Come on baby, bleed for me. I run myself dry, but no words come for him, because he taught me the art of being undressed and feeling nothing.
For awhile, even though I cannot remember others’ laughs, I continue to pick their names off of me like scabs. I continue to wake up feeling like I am being choked, only to cry out to a ghost. I continue to find myself saying it’s my fault, as I pull pieces of the past out of my heart. It is not until my mother sits me down and says that love’s burrowed in my bones, that I feel too much because I let everything live inside of me, that I begin to move on. She holds me and says, “You are not a graveyard for memories. Allow yourself to breathe.” Exhausted, I take a season off of love, and with time, grow a skin thicker than any of the insults that had been directed at me.
international womens day today
dont forget to include trans women, disabled women, women of colour, non-binary people who partly identify as women, queer women, all women.all of them. i don’t want to see any derailed posts today about shit like “international mens day” it doesnt fly like that
The Problem With Love
The problem with love, is that it isn’t defined. And it cannot be. It has different depths and meanings to different people.
I once read that love is the willingness to die for another, and perhaps, in the most extreme measures, that is true.
Love is also suicide. It doesn’t last forever. Maybe we were simply in love with the idea of what the person was. Or could have been. Or how we feel about ourselves. Either way, like a rose in the garden, it has it’s thorns and withers away to be reborn at another time and place.
Love is madness. It drives people insane. It can cause even the most optimistic person to feel discouraged. And it causes the most pessimistic to feel a Superman complex.
Love is fear. And love is hatred. And acceptance. Love can be the reason all of your dreams come true. Or the reason you threw them all away.
Love isn’t perfect, but many choose to see and feel otherwise. Love, in my eyes, is the most interesting theory and/or emotion on this planet.
Love is me getting a second job, to take care of a dog that many would have abandoned. Love is me not dating anyone for years, for fear of experiencing that pain all over again. Love is, me dating again, because in the end it’s worth it. Love is waiting. And patient. And kind.
Love is seeing the absolute best in someone who is flawed in every single way and still accepting them with all of their baggage, issues, inner demons, and monsters.
You can love a job. Or money. Or items. Or a memory. A place. A taste. A person.
And that’s the problem with love; Love is everything and everywhere we are, yet we keep searching for it.