There weren’t many people in this world who would let you be vulnerable and still believe you were strong.

 Rob ThomasThe Thousand-Dollar Tan Line  (via varst)

(via allbonesnoskin)

(via ruinedchildhood)

And they would say
‘She’s such a hungry girl’ but their faces would not fit their words.
I could see their true thoughts –
It is too much – she wants too much –
Eyes too big for her tiny tummy – she wants more than she can handle.

They forgot that I grew up in a cage,
My fingers and face pressed to the glass walls,
Always breaking the illusion of freedom
To those on the other side, who saw the colourful blood
Pushed from my flesh, till I was blueish pale and sickly.
My stomach was so small, but I knew it could stretch.
Then, I was just planning ahead, Designing dreams for the future.

It was a world that demanded so much
From a girl it would never give to.
You must remember it – don’t you remember
It, love? The incessant chime of
Not good enough
Not pretty enough
Not small enough not quiet enough not sweet enough.
Not enough not enough not enough –
Never enough.

And now I am a woman with a flame in my throat
Spitting back the words they used to bind me.
I never used to feel anything – a void of a child, empty and numb – but now –
But now emotion is my addiction.
I want space and stars and power and pain and pleasure.

I am a fire running through the forest –
Everything is caught in the blaze,
Until I run out of trees to jump to,
Out of green that I can consume.
I am a sandstorm you will not find your way out of –
You can try to run but your feet will sink
Into the desert dunes and
You will disappear into a cloud of dust.
I am the thing that lurks in your shadow –
Something caught in the periphery
It will be too late when you realise –
I will devour you, darling.

This world is never enough – will never be enough.
I will always ache for more, crave it desperately
Like the last few drops shaken violently from the bottle.

They still say
‘Such a hungry girl’ (although I am eighteen with sharp teeth and curved hips)
But hunger is not the word they should crown me with.
It is not a need that can be satisfied or satiated.
It is want, pure and selfish.
An unappeasable appetite.
The word they want (the word I want) is

"La Fringale" Emma (via feministfatales)

(via backshelfpoet)








I have never thought about it in this context

that’s actually really, really creepy.

I… fuck.

Yeah, basically.

I once pointed this out to my mother and she just stared at me, in stunned silence for ages. 

There will always be a girl who is less sober, less secure, with less friends walking in a darker part of town. I want her safe just as much as I want me safe.

(via itsinthestars)

(via walkthewalktoday)


"He wants to go home."

There’s no point to a guy yelling, “Hey sexy baby” at me out of the passenger window of a car as it speeds past. Even if I was into creepy misogynists and wanted to give him my number, I couldn’t. The car didn’t even slow down. But that’s okay, because he wasn’t actually hitting on me. The point wasn’t to proposition me or chat me up. The only point was to remind me, and all women, that our bodies are his to stare at, assess, comment on, even touch. “Hey sexy baby” is the first part of a sentence that finishes, “this is your daily message from the patriarchy, reminding you that your body is public property”.

Going to a party where I knew you’d be,
dudes bobbing for boyfriends, eyes shining
like candy apples. I want to be a lamppost,
or the history of plumbing. I am tired of being
mysterious. You are drinking rum next to
the laughing skullheads and I am unhappy
because I am dead and I miss you. Once
a year, day of the dead, you think you’d think
of me more often. These people shoulda
dressed up as their best selves to mix and
mingle in the courtyard garden. If everything
is green then why do I feel so blue? I would like
to be a plain-faced man, living with you quietly.
Leave the party but you can’t hear me you can
no longer hear me. The dead are boring.
Enlightenment is boring. We can read the minds
of dogs. We make the black cats scatter across
the grass. There is a better party where I am not
a ghost and you are not Aquaman. I am like
a pornstar, we are all of us pornstars aching
to get back into our terrycloth robes. Gives me
a headache, all this intellectual stimulation.
It’s cold out tonight. I am here by the back wall,
in the museum of the afterlife. I would like to
be a flickering cowboy. I like the live music—
we only get the recorded stuff here. I would like
to be alive again. I would like to say something
about grace.

Unhappy Hour by Richard Siken (x)

(via irynka)

(via tyleroakley)

One of the most sinister things about normalized racism is you don’t have to have bad intentions to be racist, you just have to remain ignorant.

(via thereadables)

(via fl-o-ra)

Sext each other like the NSA is watching and you want to put on a fantastic show.

  July 19, 2014 at 05:20pm

(via troubledtyler)

You will learn that sometimes human beings have to just sit in one place and, like, HURT. That you will become way less concerned with what other people think of you when you realize how seldom they do. That there is such a thing as raw, unalloyed, agendaless kindness. That it is possible to fall asleep during an anxiety attack.

  1. David Foster Wallace, Infinite Jest (via avvfvl)

(via speioritur)