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Me running away from my responsibilities like:

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The fam when 5sos announced Girlstalkboys

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She was a barely-hidden warzone. She joked about death in a way that made my heart ache. She would look me in the eyes and say, “God, I hope I get hit by a car.”  Everyone around us would be laughing.   It was terrifying; this dance she had of half-shown torment. One day I asked her “what have you been through that you make comments like that?”   She just laughed.

r.i.d (via inkskinned)

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who ya gonna call?

twitter @wmybeans

insta @emmaohemmoh

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Password?

Does anyone know how to Change passwords on tumblr? An article on snapchats "Mashable" creeped me the fuck out 😶

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“you found a raven inside your chest where other people had songbirds how are you supposed to be brilliant when you are darkness in a world of color” -r.i.d. (aka @inkskinned ) art by @everyone-loves-an-introvert 

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insp.

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Your mother did not raise you with a wolf in your chest so that you could howl over losing a guy

@inkskinned

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Look around your college classroom, spot the virgins. See, this seems like a game until you skip over the girl with a short skirt and hair in front of her eyes because you heard last summer that she slept with like nineteen guys. You can’t see her hands, but they’re under the table, pulling a rosary through her fingers as she tries to wash the sin off her. She’s only ever kissed three people in her whole life and they’re all girls. She turned down the wrong guy and he told everyone she’s “a whore.” The label “slut” stuck to the bottom of her shoe and swallowed her up. But that quiet girl who is always reading probably never touched someone else’s penis, you figure, because you don’t know that she goes home and strips down and pulls on tight black leather, you don’t know she’s got a set of whips that could make any set of knees quiver, you don’t know because she’s proud of what she does but she’s not stupid enough to let anyone know about it. She’s sexy, just not here, not where people judge. See, the truth is: you have no idea who has lost their virginity, because it doesn’t change you. It doesn’t give you some kind of glow or superpower or stamp on your forehead. You know the feeling of waking up on your birthday and thinking “I don’t feel any older whatsoever”? That’s what maybe they’re all so afraid of you finding out: sex doesn’t change you. Sex doesn’t make you an animal, sex doesn’t suddenly make your relationship a million times more stable or intimate or romantic - it can’t fix what’s broken, although it can make the pain go away for a bit. Sex doesn’t really occur with eighty tea lights and a thick white rug. Sex is ugly and loud and frequently awkward, sex is excellent and breathtaking and when you wake up the next morning, you’re the exact same person. There’s not some magical connection with the person in bed beside you. Believe it or not, pregnancy isn’t some kind of punishment - but practice safe sex, get tested, don’t spread your germs around. They want to tell you, “Sex can ruin you” and I’ve heard that a lot as a little girl, that some boy would join me under my sheets and then dump me four days after, used, unhappy. But I figured out that I’m not a fucking toy. Letting someone have sex with me is not letting them “use” me, because I’m not an object. My father said the issue lay in the fact “Men are insecure and need to know that they’re the best you ever had,” but I think that’s a steaming crock of absolute-wrong and if I didn’t tell the people I’m with how many others I’d slept beside, there would be literally no way for them to know my number, because I don’t rust, I don’t wear out, I don’t get bruised. I’m not a wilting fruit, I don’t go rotten. But here’s the thing: some people connect sex and emotion. I don’t personally because I am probably secretly an ice storm in disguise, but I still respect my partner’s desires. If they’re the type to want love and sex to coincide, I let them. I don’t make fun, I don’t pull one-night-stands or friends-with-benefits, because it’s not their “reputation” I’m afraid for: it’s their heart I’m defending. Here’s the thing: Instead of worrying about people’s “purity” and how it defines them as a person, worry instead about how you can protect other people’s emotions. Because here’s the thing: look around your room and spot the virgins. Look harder. You can’t tell. Sex doesn’t alter people, it doesn’t make them act in a certain way nor dress in a certain manner. Sex and personality have nothing to do with each other. There’s a reason that virginity doesn’t show on someone’s face: because having sex doesn’t cause you to change.

“I lost my virginity to a boy I didn’t even love…” /// r.i.d (via i-blame-reagan)

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luke + black

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remember you and i sat under fireworks and the whole time instead of watching the sky i watched you or how when we went to the beach for the day i almost crashed the car because i kept glancing over to you singing at the top of your lungs or when we lay together so i could show you my favorite movie and you fell asleep in the first part and i was more interested in seeing how your eyelashes flutter when you dream

it took me a long time to realize you were never looking back at me.

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We were trained to fit better. To dumb down, slim down, shut up. To undo our personal catastrophes in quiet, with a delicate touch. To agree, to conceed, to cooperate. To flinch when we gave our names. To say everything with a look, to say nothing aloud, to pray for forgiveness rather than ask for permission.

We were trained to pocket the problems, to walk quicker, to drop our throats into whispers when we say what happened to her. We were not trained on how to help her, just how not to become her, a voiceless scream, a crime that belongs to nobody. To fit in by blending, by not being victim, by pretending not to feel weak.

We were trained to eat less where they could see, to collaborate, to look down, lie down, give up. To nurture, to accept responsibility for, to nurse wounds. To deliver the word “no” so delicately it is a leaf that barely breaks the water, to deliver our proudest achievements with a shame and humility that breaks us. To accept that our labor is cheap, that we are a polical debate, that we are not invited to discussions of our worth, of our bodies.

We are taught to sit still, to cross legs, to swallow our fists. We are taught to accept the one girl that fits I to the movie. That we, as an audience, are too many, have tastes that are too specific, that we should be content with our romance movies, that we belong to a niche where at the end we see ourselves get married.

We learn to hate pink, resent flowers. Chew our way out of cages. We take back our kitchens for the knives, we wear high heels to church, we tap long fingers on hardwood. We learn to fix the tire, to play the game anyway, to cut our own castles, to write poems. We learn to use our fists, to not apologize so often. To eventually be abrupt, to be fierce, to be wild and proud of it.

We learn to be witch, to be a sandstorm, to be hellhound. To love to be bitch.

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“you found a raven inside your chest where other people had songbirds how are you supposed to be brilliant when you are darkness in a world of color” -r.i.d. (aka @inkskinned ) art by @everyone-loves-an-introvert 

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i don’t know. it’s not like i woke up really sad one day. it’s more like over time things just stopped being shiny until eventually i was empty. like i just got worn down by life until i was too tired to be a part of it. that never went away. i never got everything back. i don’t know. i say i’m sad because it’s the closest thing. it’s more like i never really feel anything.

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just for a change  if it’s not too much trouble stop fucking talking  about what other people are eating.   i don’t care that he’s fat and buying six sandwiches. it’s none of your business. even if you’re a nutritionist, he’s not  your patient. he shouldn’t blush  and mumble his order because  of the way that you treat him. for all you know, those sandwiches are going to orphans. and even if he’s going to eat them himself: it’s his body, my dude, you don’t get to police it.   my friend is thin and has celiac disease  and the number of elitist dickbags who snort at her every time she asks for gluten-free is so astronomically high if we built a ladder out of them, we’d break the glass ceiling. i  have heard: “that diet doesn’t really work, you know,” “you're  thin already, why bother?” “just eat bread it’s not that bad  for you!” flung in her face about every time  she sits down to eat. she has to be polite about it and tell them the truth  or else for some reason, they’re angry.   but why do i have to inform you, a stranger,  about my personal health situation before you pardon me? why is it that i have to admit  that i’m lactose intolerant before someone allows me to drink soy milk? it’s not the blood of virgins  and it’s not hurting you to shut the fuck up without snickering about how girls are always trying new diet things. why does anyone with any hint of curve have to  talk about their genetics, their thyroid, why do they have to explain to your fuck of a peabrain before you “forgive” them for the sin of just eating?   i hate that i feel like i have to apologize when i’m ordering, that if i’m buying only ice cream i feel like i have to explain i’m not buying it for myself only. i hate feeling like brownies and cake and good things are all “indulgences” but  carrots and broccoli and good things are all “dieting.” why the hell do i have to feel bad about a plate overflowing with food? why the hell do i have to feel bad  about anything i do?   how about instead of snickering that sally’s eating salad because she’s trying too hard to fit in you shut your fucking mouth about it.

I will literally eat you whole. Try me. See if I won’t. // r.i.d (via inkskinned)

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it goes like this: eat cake, feel fine, wake up, monthly weigh-in, gained ten pounds. frown. skip cake next time. no big deal. eat unhealthy, feel sick, weekly weigh-in. gained five pounds. nausea creeps from inside belly. okay, sweets are out. down to fruits and veggies. eat bread, feel ugly, daily weigh-in, hands shaking. down only one pound. only one. only one. get punched in the face. okay. no more carbs.  eat grapes, eat orange, eat less. pounds shed. pounds stop. ounces now. drink more water. look at chips, feel hungry, feel out of control, feel miserable. hands reach out. anything but the chips. eat cake eat popcorn eat everything. lie in bed, hands over distended stomach. get beat up. get bruises. get broken. okay. okay. okay. get out of bed and do sit-ups until it is morning. think about candy, get punched in face. think about sandwiches, get punched in face. touch food, get punched in face. work out, get praised. shaky hands. hour weigh-ins. don’t wanna get kicked don’t wanna get hurt just wanna eat everything just wanna eat nothing can’t listen to whatever anyone else is saying because inside of head is fucking dungeon think about sleep think about warm think about leaving your house for the first time in months, think about food think about skinny think about how it feels when the bones start showing, see mirror like friend like enemy see anything but yourself just this little kid crying can’t give in empty feels good empty feels great feels maybe crazy on edge anxiety and passion and riskiness and deep depression can’t let go it’s the last thing you’re holding onto a mile isn’t that far if you’re running keep going only proud when tiny only good day when no food day only best day when bone tired and bittermouthed and zero on the calorie count eat cake, feel like exploding, tear self to shreds, fall asleep sobbing, work out for four hours, approach scale like chopping block, gained .05 pounds, cry, want to tear your stomach off, spend time pinching pulling pressing every bit of loose skin. waterwaterwater and black coffee water and green tea water and finally thankfully amen a heaping portion of exactly nothing say: no thanks. say: maybe later. say: not hungry. don’t say: please, don’t let it beat me. don’t say: it’s not the food i’m afraid of, it’s the voices that follow in the footsteps of me eating. don’t say: cake isn’t worth the knife that my brain will stick into my sternum. don’t say: please help. say: control. say: diet. say: skinnyskinnyskinny. it goes like this: first it’s about being thin. and then one day you wake up and it’s just about dying.

unprettiness // r.i.d (via inkskinned)