“My skin cracked and the sun came in, it was as fragile as my lips. Shaken and shut, I needed staples in my hips and I needed arms, but the open air was limbless, and my nervous breath was endless, if only it would stop.”
“But sometimes we get sad about things and we don’t like to tell other people that we are sad about them. We like to keep it a secret. Or sometimes we are sad but we don’t really know we are sad. So we say we aren’t sad. But really we are.”—The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time, Mark Haddon (via veilles)
“The young girl feels that her body is getting away from her, it is no longer the straightforward expression of her individuality; it becomes foreign to her; and at the same time she becomes for others a thing: on the street men follow her with their eyes and comment on her anatomy. She would like to be invisible; it frightens her to become flesh and to show her flesh.
This distaste is expressed by many young girls through the wish to be thin; they no longer want to eat, and if they are forced to, they have vomiting spells; they constantly watch their weight. Others become pathologically timid; for them it is torture to enter a drawing room or even go out in the street. From such beginnings psychoses may now and then develop.”—Simone de Beauvoir, The Second Sex (via grrrlstudies)
“Some have a difficult time with feminism. “Why not a human liberation movement?” they say. The answer is that the power differences between the sexes, races and classes are still so extreme that invoking humanism, at this time, dangerously denies that fact. “Those in power always speak of humanism,” says Robin Morgan, “and accuse those who have been made powerless and categorized as ‘other’ of divisiveness. This is done, however, only when the powerless recognize and name their already divided state, and begin to articulate their longing — for union.
The fear is not that we are different. The fear is that we are the same.”
”—Loraine Hutchins and Lani Kaahumanu, Bi Any Other Name. (via grrrlstudies)
beautiful rich white woman dies in a car accident, or something and I feel sad little poor black children starve to death all the time, shit, right now I go to college and write poems is that doing it for you?
“So here are reasons 8-10 why I talk to strangers: Because I never know what might happen; because the world is full of surprises; because the very thing I am most worried about might turn into the thing I need most.”—Camille Dungy (via leopoldgursky)
"he’s tall and has a good jaw line and has acne that lines his chin. he’s so self conscious about it but i think it makes him look human. also, he wears glasses and drinks coffee and writes poetry about the world. he likes to lay in my bed with me and kiss every finger and freckle and scar. he’s too old for me, too unpredictable, too fickle. but i love him. i love him. i love him."