foster disorder in all it's forms.
debates, disturbances, divergences, conflicts, brawls, disputes, agitations, chaos, anarchy.
It’s said it takes seven years
to grow completely new skin cells.
To think, this year I will grow
into a body you never will
what are the words you do not have? what do you need to say? what are the tyranies you swallow day by day and attempt to make your own until you will sicken and die of them, still in silence?
audre lorde (via justmegger)
i’ve learned that men will only love you when you are blooming
and not when there is so much wilting inside of you
do not call my voice a waterfall
if you will run the second you smell smoke on my skin
the night you spill your story, i hope they won’t look at you
like you are a mess that,
your skin is table linen they
desperately want to scrub clean
Delalorm Semabia, 25, a Ghanaian blogger (x)
When you grow up as a girl, the world tells you the things that you are supposed to be: emotional, loving, beautiful, wanted. And then when you are those things, the world tells you they are inferior: illogical, weak, vain, empty. The world teaches you that the way you exist in it is disgusting — you watch boys cringe backward in your dorm room when you talk about your period, blue water pretending to be blood in a maxi pad commercial. It is little things, and it is constant. In a food court in a mall, after you go to the gynecologist for the first time, you and your friend talk about how much it hurts, and over her shoulder you watch two boys your age turn to look at you and wrinkle their noses: the reality of your life is impolite to talk about. The world says that you don’t have a right to the space you occupy, any place with men in it is not yours, you and your body exist only as far as what men want to do with it. At fifteen, you find fifteen-year-old boys you have never met somehow believe you should bend your body to their will. At almost thirty, you find fifteen-year-old boys you have never met still somehow believe you should bend your body to their will. They are children. They are children.
Stevie Nicks (via whisperingwordsofwisdom)
Leaving is not enough. You must stay gone. Train your heart like a dog. Change the locks even on the house he’s never visited. You lucky, lucky girl. You have an apartment just your size. A bathtub full of tea. A heart the size of Arizona, but not nearly so arid. Don’t wish away your cracked past, your crooked toes, your problems are papier mache puppets you made or bought because the vendor at the market was so compelling you just had to have them. You had to have him. And you did. And now you pull down the bridge between your houses, you make him call before he visits, you take a lover for granted, you take a lover who looks at you like maybe you are magic. Make the first bottle you consume in this place a relic. Place it on whatever altar you fashion… Don’t lose too much weight. Stupid girls are always trying to disappear as revenge. And you are not stupid. You loved a man with more hands than a parade of beggars, and here you stand. Heart like a four-poster bed. Heart like a canvas. Heart leaking something so strong they can smell it in the street.
Frida Kahlo (via shiftinconsciousness)