When it is but it aint


Some of us love badly. Sometimes the love is the type of love that implodes. Folds in on itself. Eats its insides. Turns wine to poison. Behaves poorly in restaurants. Drinks. Kisses other people. Comes back to your bed at 4am smelling like everything outside. Asks about your ex. Is jealous of your ex. Thinks everyone a rival. Some of us love others badly, love ourselves worse. Some of us love horrid, love beastly. Love sick love anti light. Sometimes the love can’t go home at night, can’t sleep with itself cannot contain itself, catches fire, destroys the belly, strips buildings, goes missing. Punches. Smashes heirlooms. Tells lies. The best lies. Fucks around. Writes poems, impresses people. Chases lovers into corners. Leaves them longing. Sea sick. Says yes. Means anything but. Tricks the body. Kills the body. Dances wild and walks away, smiling.

truuu

(via alonesomes)

jean-luc-gohard:

What fucks me up about the Darren Wilson fundraiser is that he hasn’t been charged with a crime. He doesn’t have to hire a lawyer. He’s on paid leave, so he’s not losing wages. This is not covering his expenses, because he doesn’t have any additional expenses. This is a reward. He’s getting a $250,000 reward for murdering an unarmed black kid, two days away from starting college, in broad daylight.

(via karlsparxxx)

Being white means never having to think about it.

america-wakiewakie:

Happening Now! Oakland, CA, August 20th, 2014, marches in solidarity with Ferguson. Justice for Mike Brown!

soprie:

Stop calling what’s happening in Ferguson a “riot”.

It is not a riot.

Vancouver losing the Stanley Cup a few years ago was a riot. It was angry, drunken destruction with no purpose. (And as a Canadian, it was a shameful event)

Ferguson is not a riot. It is a protest. It is an uprising. It is a civil rights revolution. The people of Ferguson may be angry, but they have a reason to be angry, and they are not violent, and they are not hooligans, thugs or looters. They are protesting for their human rights which are currently being denied.

Look at the difference between a riot and a protest. A riot is chaos. A protest has a purpose.

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(via sneadly)

I didn’t want you
to only fuck me,
I wanted you to
love me.

But I didn’t know what to
convince you with
besides my body.

Hot Winds, Holy Thoughts | Lora Mathis (via lora-mathis)

(via lora-mathis)

(via lotusflour)

spacetiger-bonsai:

euphoriaclouds:

thesoftghetto:

Protesters upset about the smearing of Mike Brown converged at CNN headquarters.

aye my city

yup Atlanta showed up today!

(via nayyirahwaheed)

It honestly amazes me to see how quick people are to defend those in high power positions. Yes, we know, not ALL cops, not ALL men, not ALL white people, etc, but when it turns into a large chunk of a group doing something wrong and oppressing those not as privileged as them, we NEED to start having discussions about it. The things happening now are bigger than the hurt feelings of people who are more privileged than others. Stereotypes about cops, men, white people, etc hurt their feelings, stereotypes about the oppressed are literally killing them.

Lara Haddadin, a friend of mine’s status on facebook. (via petitloupp)

(via feministbully)

(via itsinthestars)

0351992:

ishyagrrrl:

image

Yesterday I got a call from my sister Cheeraz Gormon in St. Louis who was standing with poet Elizabeth Vega. They wanted me to know that a few women had created, on lawns, in the streets, healing stations, a place where the youth could come and scream and cry and be held and heard in love. Mighty work.Dream Hampton

this made me cry.

💔

(via nayyirahwaheed)

(via troubledtyler)

nowinexile:

The last words said by Black youth murdered by policemen. 

(via nailsdugin)

^tru

(via armenianqueen)

I wanted to see where beauty comes from
without you in the world, hauling my heart
across sixty acres of northeast meadow,
my pockets filling with flowers.
Then I remembered,
it’s you I miss in the brightness
and body of every living name:
rattlebox, yarrow, wild vetch.
You are the green wonder of June,
root and quasar, the thirst for salt.
When I finally understand that people fail
at love, what is left but cinquefoil, thistle,
the paper wings of the dragonfly
aeroplaning the soul with a sudden blue hilarity?
If I get the story right, desire is continuous,
equatorial. There is still so much
I want to know: what you believe
can never be removed from us,
what you dreamed on Walnut Street
in the unanswerable dark of your childhood,
learning pleasure on your own.
Tell me our story: are we impetuous,
are we kind to each other, do we surrender
to what the mind cannot think past?
Where is the evidence I will learn
to be good at loving?
The black dog orbits the horseshoe pond
for treefrogs in their plangent emergencies.
There are violet hills,
there is the covenant of duskbirds.
The moon comes over the mountain
like a big peach, and I want to tell you
what I couldn’t say the night we rushed
North, how I love the seriousness of your fingers
and the way you go into yourself,
calling my half-name like a secret.
I stand between taproot and treespire.
Here is the compass rose
to help me live through this.
Here are twelve ways of knowing
what blooms even in the blindness
of such longing. Yellow oxeye,
viper’s bugloss with its set of pink arms
pleading do not forget me.
We hunger for eloquence.
We measure the isopleths.
I am visiting my life with reckless plenitude.
The air is fragrant with tiny strawberries.
Fireflies turn on their electric wills:
an effulgence. Let me come back
whole, let me remember how to touch you
before it is too late.

Stacie Cassarino, Summer Solstice
(via grammatolatry)