bliss lane
No title available
we're not kids anymore.
Origami Around
oozey mess
blake kathryn
Xuebing Du
No title available
taylor price
#extradirty
Today's Document
EXPECTATIONS
Misplaced Lens Cap
Not today Justin
let's talk about Bridgerton tea, my ask is open
2025 on Tumblr: Trends That Defined the Year
Show & Tell
he wasn't even looking at me and he found me
Jules of Nature
The Stonewall Inn
seen from Brazil
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from Canada
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from France
seen from Malaysia
seen from Greece
seen from Finland
seen from Indonesia
seen from United Kingdom
seen from United States
seen from Malaysia
seen from Argentina
seen from Germany
seen from Malaysia
seen from United States
seen from Malaysia
@aprayerforrain
A, B, C
A is for Abandonment Issues
because you can’t remember the last time
you had an uncomplicated relationship with a man
and all of your adult life has just felt
like an endless spooling and unspooling
sins committed only to be dissected.
B is for Boyfriend
when the story is just not working, but you keep writing anyway
Current mood…
Reminder that she actually wins that season, so keep your head up.
Reminder that she constantly had trouble believing that she deserved to be there and her first few could best be described as ‘not the worst’.
And she won. She stayed positive, cried when she needed to, and kept going.
I was just about to say that… I almost cried when she won
Eventually, I started going to sleep tired and I started waking up tired and I wasn’t sure how that was supposed to work.
paletemptations (via wnq-writers)
Today I finally unpacked my last box of books (at least, I think it's the last...). Out of curiosity, I counted all of them once I'd arranged them all on my shelves. 262. I own two hundred and sixty-two books.* I'm not sure whether this elevates me to Supreme Nerd Status or pushes me into the somewhat less desirable Hoarder Territory. And I still want more. *Not counting a fat stack of accumulated literary magazines and a whole other box of witchy books.
really the most unrealistic thing about the harry potter franchise is that it’s full of british people and half the books aren’t made up of complaining about the weather
Pretty Accurate Representation Of My Life
This is roughly what Seattle looks like right now and I’m fucking ecstatic about it.
A Letter to My Fuckbuddy
There are crumbs in your bed
your bed is a minefield of cookie crumbs and olive pits and wine stains and sex smells
all the sordid evidence of passion
your apartment a museum of lust and gluttony
and other hidden sins
I don’t mind, though
and all that rope’s unnecessary
I’d stay even if you didn’t tie me down
bathing in your old bathwater
following in your printed footsteps.
I’ve never told you this, but
if I could I’d curl up inside your
tobacco-pitted lungs
lulled by your warmth, the
throb of your blood on all sides.
This isn’t a love story
not even an acceptably pleasing epilogue
this is just me
wanting to bury myself
among the crumbs and filth
all the leftover evidence
of your existence.
May your lipstick lines always be clean and your chai lattes always be dirty.
Sun, heart, home
One day when you need to hear it most, I will tell you where every fairytale failed to come close.
I will tell you the mystery of your mythical parts:
your sailor legs, your seafaring heart, your black pearl eyes, fished from the sea, by a deep diving tortoise half-uncle.
You see? How your fingers hold salt memory of which knots will slip, and which will save.
You gasp in wonder because you know it’s true: you did not learn these from me.
Your lion luck, your dragon bones, your monkey god curiosity: you came across these honestly
from your fire breathing great grandmother, who descended from stars into the China sea.
When one day you learn about the war and think that is all our blood is for, I will open the door to your name.
I will give you the words to see: how sun flows from heart and heart becomes home;
how your name becomes shine when paired with my own.
–T.C. (2017)
being an adult
pro: can buy yourself whatever you want, no one can stop you
con: can buy yourself whatever you want, no one can stop you
i 👏 wanna 👏 get 👏 fucked 👏
by 👏 something 👏 other 👏 than 👏 life
I Will Definitely Face My Fear
Body Image
I want someone who loves me completely, in totality
Unconditional affection for every part of me: body, heart, mind, spirit
[Whether or they’re unique
Individually, they are in combination.]
I want a lover who worships me
All my subtleties and nuances
Accepts and draws me out of my fragile shell.
From my feet – actually, no, they’re large and boat-shaped
To the top of my head – just don’t look too closely, because my roots are greasy
And in between: my legs, long and toned – except for the small patches of cellulite
That dimple the backs
My hips, strong and wide – though, if truth be told, devoid of rhythm.
My stomach, hourglass shaped but perpetually, blindingly, fishbelly-white
My ribs, curved guardians of my soft, pulsating organs – but too large in circumference
At least, my breasts are very likable, if small
Skip the shoulders, nicely shaped and sturdy, but mannishly wide
Hopefully he’d love my face – imperfect, spotted, yet genuine
Framed by lush, long, dark hair that won’t but hang stick-straight
But then, there are other things about me to love:
My personality: quirky, eager to please, if painfully awkward
My intellect – above average, if not remarkable
My soul, oh-so-full of love but jaded and drowning
In humanity’s toxicity
Shit – surely there’s more of me to love
My cunt, I forgot about that
Sweet-tasting, I’m told
Though every time I spread myself in the mirror
I see only uneven lips and a tangle of wiry hair
Maybe the little ridges of muscle rising
On either side of my spine
I worked so hard for those
Though they’re almost too subtle to notice
There’s also my skin – soft, probably already cancer-ridden.
I suppose whoever he is
Will just have to settle for anything that’s left.
Here's a real-life story for people who still don't believe in sexist attitudes manifesting as verbiage intended to guilt women into doing what men want them to. Backstory: worked with this guy briefly in a restaurant years ago. Never knew him that well. Ran into him again at a bar recently. He found me on Facebook and asked me out. He said, "Lets just have fun and enjoy each other's company that's all" and assured me he would be a "true gentleman." I was noncommittal and told him I wasn't looking for anything because I was busy and might be moving soon (I felt bad about being honest and telling him I just wasn't interested in him). Maybe a week later, he sent me an unsolicited GIF of an erect dick bulging out of a pair of boxers. I told him it was gross and not funny. He apologized and asked me out again. Following exchange ensues. Key things to note here: -I'm uptight because I rejected him. -I'm missing out because I rejected him. -Because I'm moving anyway, I shouldn't care [translation: I'm potentially leaving soon, so why shouldn't I lower my standards for him til then?]. -The underlying assumption that his "fun" should also be my "fun" - that is, a complete lack of comprehension that the reason I'm not accepting his offer is that I'm just not interested in him. Maybe I'm an angry feminazi for being upset about this. I don't feel angry. One jerk isn't that big of a deal, in the grand scheme of things. I can laugh about it and shrug it off. More than anything, I feel sad and worried, because conversations like this are like watching the preview to a bad horror movie - one where you know what's going to happen, but it doesn't make it any less painful to watch. This is the preview to the movie where girls get assaulted and raped. This is the preview to the movie in which some guy tried to pull out his dick on my friend in a stairwell, and she had to pull out her mace to stop him. I'm tired of movies like that. I think that the reason this sort of thing upsets me (and other women) isn't because of the individual incidents themselves. It's because each of those incidents is just a reminder of the larger, more pervasive attitude that's been stacked against us our whole lives and the fact that no matter how much we talk about it/share our stories/protest/lobby, there are still so many people who deny our experiences or tell us we're overreacting. And that sucks.
S.A. Khanum | fragments of modern day warfare.
Laundry Day
I’m sitting with my headphones in at this silly little coffee shop drinking weak coffee and watching the barista, who’s cute and asked me how my day was, as he humors this fat customer in a bright yellow shirt and dingy cargo shorts who just won’t stop talking, and while the barista’s smiling and nodding this really good-natured, really pretty smile at this smelly gesticulating customer he’s reaching behind him to screw a nozzle in place on the steamer spigot of the espresso machine and I’m the only one who seems to notice and I feel this strange attractive secret intimacy at the thought that I’m the only one noticing him doing this and there’s something so mesmerizing and beautiful about the way his left hand’s moving, the way his fingers are guiding this little silver nozzle into place with all the authority deftness gentleness that I could ever wish to be handled with, that for a few moments it was all I could do to stare and wish with every unconscious fiber of my being that I was that stupid little silver nozzle on an espresso machine steamer until he looked at me and asked if I needed anything and I realized the fat yellow shirted man had walked away seconds ago and I blushed and remembered the first savasana I’d ever felt at peace with the world and said yes to more coffee.
