violentpakistanigirl

[violentpakistanigirl]

how it feels to make the mature decision regarding your long-term future

[violentpakistanigirl]

The bedsheets stick to your arms as you stare up at the fan, whirring and whirring, yet it does little to cool you

It feels uncomfortable to be lying there in your shirt and jeans which you never bothered to peel off. You shift and heave your upper body up a little — propping up on your elbows, like something half-alive

Little beads of sweat form on your neck and trickle down your back, your shirt becomes damp and sticks to you, like wet skin on wet skin

Your head feels heavy still, from sleep. It blurs your vision and you can barely keep your sluggish eyes open. Glancing at the clock and seeing that it's been almost an hour since you woke up, and you've done nothing but stare at the ceiling fan since

And suddenly the realization grips you, your eyebrows furrow. It feels heavy on your neck, tight around your throat. A hand on your neck. In the quiet hush of the night, with no witness, desperation crawls in

Denim chafing your thigh as your hand shifts under the waistband, almost feeling like something gripping you on purpose, almost bruising. Your fingers slip in-between your legs and you swallow, your mouth suddenly feeling cottony

Muted huffs of your pleasure; your forearm cramps. That last breath you let out rocks you deep into your soul and you know it's the closest you'll get to salvation

It's over; you let yourself fall back on the bed, your elbow no longer propping you up, your forearm loosening. You feel the shirt against your perspiring back clinging harder now, and the settling sensation between your legs. It's cold and burning at the same time

Heavy lidded and cotton-mouthed, you wipe your fingers on the pockets of your jeans. Too hazy to be careful. Your eyes drift blankly up to the ceiling, unfocused, then past it. Almost as if you're beyond the plains

Tears prickle your eyes and it becomes hard to swallow. You make no move to stop them from falling, the cool streaks going down the sides for your face, grazing your ears as you stare straight ahead

Everything is still. The fan is still whirring. The cars passing by occasionally make moving lights on your walls. Your eyes prickle again. The fan is still whirring. Nothing's changed except the ache that dulled for a second. A few moments of silence pass, with you listening to the cars passing occasionally and the low hum of the fan

And before you know it, desperation starts to crawl in again...

But your mind slips. And the last thing you remember is seeing the whirring fan over your head before you're out again. The humidity of the air engulfs you like a thick and creamy blanket, dousing you in sleep

Morning comes, you find yourself standing over the sink, one hand clutching the pants, the other scrubbing away at the pockets until your knuckles become red and raw

You leave it, clean and washed, strung over the towel rack

Not a trace of the desperation which runs so deep in you yet you never let anyone see.

[violentpakistanigirl]

What brand is your microwave

Samsung

[violentpakistanigirl]

I was raised to believe in tradition. I grew up hearing that a woman's true home is with her husband, that marriage is half of her faith, the ultimate purpose of her existence. I was taught that as a woman, I have to cover myself, that I must remain unseen until the day I am given to a man. And then to let him take from me, in ways I have spent my whole life avoiding.

And when that moment comes, I cannot hesitate. I cannot shy away. I must be willing. I must be ready.

And for the longest time I did not question it.

There is no pain like the pain of a dream you have held so close to yourself coming undone. Realizing that marriage, the very thing you were conditioned to look forward to, is not about love at all. That it was never about love. Marriage is just a facade. A tool for patriarchal control.

Waking up to your own reality, is such an intimate type of violence. Realizing that this is something you experience. That it's not an abstract concept, something to debate about in sociology and talk about amongst peers. Realizing that when the conversation ends, I go home to it.

It is not a theory. It is not history. It is my reality.

[violentpakistanigirl]

like can i just suffer in silence in peace please?????

[violentpakistanigirl]

the only way out is through the only way out is through the only way out is through the only way out is through the only way out is through the only way out is through the only way out is through the only way out is through the only way out is through the only way out is through the only way out is through the only way out is through the only

[violentpakistanigirl]

flesheater [1988]

[violentpakistanigirl]

[violentpakistanigirl]

eighteen/she/pakistani

chronically online

dni with me i am better as a concept

[violentpakistanigirl]

[violentpakistanigirl]