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there’s a misconception that grief only happens when we lose people. this is not true. we can grieve circumstances, relationships, missed opportunities. in fact, sometimes when you find yourself plagued with waves of emotion from sadness to melancholy you may be grieving yourself. the version of yourself that you might have been if things had been different, or if only you had said something, or if someone had stood up for you.

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i–

it’s the same guy, right?

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Female fantasies of things like freedom, a quiet life away from prying eyes, closeness with nature and independence are forfeit, corrupt, colonialist, capitalist, sinister, cruel, violent, etc, but male fantasies of women as fuckdolls with no inner lives are normal and healthy and cannot be criticized 

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Reading Times, Pennsylvania, October 14, 1926

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you know what, i know too much about america. social media is so american-centric i could probably tell you more about there than my home country. i would like to forget some information about america please. i would like for someone to say “I am from Oregon” and for me to reply “haha is that some kind of herb?”. please erase america from my knowledge. thank you

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In light of JK’s new book, here’s a link to donate to the UK charity Gendered Intelligence who help provide support to trans and gender diverse children and young people!

And here’s a link to the trans rights carrd and the black trans lives matter carrd!! Even if you can’t donate signing petitions can do a lot of good!

Love you all, especially my beautiful trans and non binary followers out there! Keep being the most incredible souls! 💕💖💕💖

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i dont think any of you understand how important i am to the plot

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hmmm. im gonna go fistfight a popular author i used to love. anybody want something from starbucks i’m gonna make a stop after kicking her rich ass

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I will forever be profoundly unimpressed with people who take pride in their unkindness to others

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Lesbos, Sylvia Plath / How Big, How Blue, How Beautiful, Florence & The Machine

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The woods are lovely, dark and deep 🍃🍂

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not miss you like an idle thought; miss you like september. miss you like where am i going to get warm. like the slow turn of leaves. i miss you like cold rain and collecting old pennies. i miss you like there are no more sundays to curl up and read. i miss you like the night is empty. i miss you fully, without capacity, daunting.

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I can't write because I want to write about you. This is building altars in rotting woods and calling dead gods to bless what has never been good. This is collapsing each cartilage in my ribs so I can fit inside the memory of you underneath me. This is the swallowed ocean water and the cold hands in the morning and the way you tilt your head before saying something witty.

This is just cultivating a garden of wounds and tending to them fiercely. This is just living in your wake & drowning. This is taking out each of my teeth and saying - ah finally. time for a feast.

This is just the quiet & rabid destruction of me. no matter what I do. Nothing about that is poetry.

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summer:

watching a forgotten teaspoon slowly sink into a jar of golden honey / standing under the early july high midday sun and wondering which is more stifling, the summer heat or your endless boredom, or perhaps your loneliness / the shock of cold water against your warmed-up skin / dark clouds gathering in a corner of the bluest of blue skies / homemade lemonade that always tastes too sour / razor-sharp streaks of lightning splitting the sky into two uneven halves / a stick of butter accidentally left out by the window, now no more than a shapeless puddle / late nights of lilac coloured skies slowly turning to inky blue / sitting around a bonfire, laughter ringing in your ears / wind rustling the willow trees / the first few droplets of rain spattering on cobblestones, signalling a storm is coming / the lingering scent from tufts of lavender almost as tall as you / warm toast with olive oil, tomatoes from the garden, and feta cheese / fingertips sticky from the sour cherry marmalade your mother made three years ago / looking up at the midnight moon, stray dogs barking in the distance / lying awake wishing you could stop time and live in this moment forever / lemon scented candles reminding you of a friend who might be slipping out of your life / soft pink roses blooming in contrast to their bright green leaves / waking up to the coffee machine's purring from the kitchen / scratching the red mosquito bites on your skin until they bleed, then picking at the scabs / the nectarine tree fearlessly stretching its branches across the front yard, the fruit slowly ripening / opening the window at night and letting the fresh air overwhelm you / hundreds of ants crowding around a few bread crumbs lost in the garden / brilliant red strawberries peeking out from under wide dark leaves / the cat lounging in the sun, her pupils thinner than a blade of grass / a rainstorm pouring down on the windows, saturating every colour and making the landscape look like an impressionist painting / the orange full moon rising above the darkened hills / ice cold watermelon juice streaming down your fingers / a late august morning, golden sunlight filtering through the vines / sifting through the drawers full of childhood memories you have framed in your mind, melancholy creeping in as you realise that maybe you grew up too fast.

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Wow wtf HIV/AIDS was discovered by Flossie Wong-Staal, an Chinese-American woman, and she’s the reason the HIV test even exists. AND THEN she invented the molecular knife that lead to treatments for HIV/AIDS. And she’s STILL ALIVE. We don’t hear about the contributions of Women of Color enough, my word. Madness.

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When we were children, my sister had private music lessons at her violin teacher’s house. I only visited there once, but I still remember that afternoon. The teacher had an artificial pond in her yard, a large beautiful thing with lily pads and plant life. And in the pond, there were goldfish. I had never seen such enormous goldfish. 

I spent several minutes just staring at them (and trying to convince them to bite my fingers.) When my sister’s violin lesson ended, her teacher came out to the yard and explained that these goldfish were the same small creatures that were often unfortunately sold in plastic bags at state fairs. They were only about two inches long apiece, when she bought them and put them in the new, empty pond. In essence, they were like every goldfish I had seen before, but they had been given a much larger, much richer environment in which to flourish. As a result, they had grown into some of the most remarkable, vibrant creatures my twelve-year-old self had ever met with. All because of a pond. 

Funny what lessons children remember. My sister doesn’t play the violin anymore, but that was the first time I caught a glimpse of the overwhelming extent to which it matters, the way the world treats us.

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unfriendly reminder: this is a sex worker positive space. I will not tolerate the disrespect of sex workers here, and if you cant agree with that without a doubt then you're not welcome here.