Sam @dorothyhollis - Tumblr Blog

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thepunksink

the only one of these I’ve liked ever

emmy4keri

Stephanie Beatriz and Melissa Fumero for Latina magazine, August 2015

orbo-gifs

skypig357

Spin cycle

omanapoove

mike schur and dan goor invented healthy relationships on television

(inspired by this post)

rockyrae

My beautiful gay/bi daughters❣️

trashy-greyjoy

Marvel’s Runaways + iconic comic looks

1x10 Hostile

sourbons

smoll goth and toll sunshine

onlyblackgirl

View this post on Instagram

Angel Rice

HOW?? IS?? THIS EVEN POSSIBLE????

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im spinning

blvck-gold

Fucking hell

ikefit2014

It’s even better because she’s not the ideal body type for gymnastics. Athleticism comes on all body types.

kciddoogtaht-deactivated2018010

Yes yes yes absolutely yes

fukkce

HERE FOR THIS!!!! HERE FOR HER!!!! HERE FOR HER BODY TYPE!!! LIKE YESSSSSSS!!

moonlight-monster

SHE LITERALLY FLEW IN THE AIR I’M

augustdementhe

SO FUCKING SICK.

excima

me

inkskinned

“i hope my parents will accept who i am” is something that seems so gentle in movies but is actually such a violent and repulsive way to feel. even worse maybe is it’s cousin - the knowing that they won’t accept you, that you are a disappointment/a black sheep/a failure. the terrible duality of “i need them to love me” and “i don’t care they’re terrible people” never seems to cease.

so i’ll say this. you were not made in a factory. you are a random assortment of alleles. some of these will be just as they wished: your mother’s eyes, your father’s chin. some of these will be the complete opposite. their failure to love you is not an expression of your own success. it’s simply as far as their heart goes at the moment. i hope one day they overcome it.

but in the meantime, love doesn’t need to come from them. you aren’t a toy. you aren’t a robot built to fulfill expectations. you are just yourself, and living, and they are just two people trying to live through you. and you need to live your own life. “to thine own self be true.” those who look for failure will always find it. and those who look for love will too.

and if all else fails: come to me. i know plenty of others who will accept you.

inkskinned

the gods are not dead. when men speak to me like i can’t read, i feel athena awaken somewhere in my bone structure. her mouth spits words i had forgotten i memorized, facts from the deep pockets of libraries. she revels in the way they stutter at the quickness of my tongue, whispers, here’s what it feels to be above the cities. i know demeter for the way i feel in dirt, i catch sunlight in my palms and beg people to be disgusted at girl unhaunted by pretty, my hair a mess and my legs hairy and my body thick. i’ve kissed aphrodite, i’ve met her not in lust only but in the girl who listens like she is tied to your soul. she comes out and we go dancing, unashamed of our sexuality. i have even been her, once or twice, on rare moons where the stars aligned. i know the rage of artemis. i hunt those who hurt my sisters, i slay demons, i run in night with red lips. and i am persephone, always, goddess of the spring, goddess of the pomegranate, of wanting, of riding her own horse to hades, of being two queens. when men take power from me, i hear her whispering. take it back, she says, tongue sweet, ambrosia in the blood stream, take back your city.

the gods are not dead. they live in women. they live in me.

inkskinned

i was reading you a book and had to stop for a drink of water. you looked up at me from my shoulder, your hand flat against my chest.

“you’re kind of like candles to me,” you said.

i looked down at you, and the shape of you, this person i trust so genuinely. i felt the ghost of my anxieties. a burnout, my brain screamed. you’re a fire, you destroy things.

“it’s just,” you said, “you know how when you light a candle it always seems to make things nice and soft and romantic? and it’s just this warmth that glows so gently? and it makes everything feel special and good so naturally?”

you shifted closer to me. “you’re like candles,” you said, “you bring light to me.”

inkskinned

in the backseat, our friends are asleep. streetlights are rare and the country lies like a blanket in front of us. it’s just you and me and the moon.

“how do you know what color the stoplight is?” your voice is soft. we’ve been going through this for the last hour.

“green is underneath,” i say, matching your tone, careful not to wake up the others, “and a lot of them are made for colorblind people.”

“green is on the top, though,” you say. i glance over. your legs are up on my dash. a little bit of your thigh is showing from under your dress.

i put my eyes back on the road. “it is not,” i say, grinning, “i came up with a fun rhyme like ‘green is underneath’ for it and everything.”

“it’s a slant rhyme,” you say, “and i swear green is on top.” you trail your fingers over your knee, over your shin. i feel my palms go sweaty on the wheel and force myself to think of other things.

“what color is grass?” you ask.

“green,” i say. “and so are leaves, before you say anything.”

“what color is my dog?”

“he’s… he’s white,” i say, “i … you know i can see some colors, right, i’m red-green colorblind not –”

“what’s the most obnoxious question people ask?” you’re smiling sleepily, and the pale of the moon is a vision on you.

“um,” i look up through the windshield to the stars. “they make a big deal about how girls don’t tend to be colorblind and i gotta tell ‘em like my whole family history of it before they believe.”

you make a noise in the back of your throat. you blow on your window and draw a flower. “what color is love?”

“which song do you want me to reference here because i have a lot -”

“or joy?” you ask, “like, if you see things differently, what color is a kiss?”

i feel my cheeks pink in a color i will never know. i grip the wheel. i think of you, and your sundress riding up your thighs and your bare feet on my dash and your freckles and how you’ll stay awake just so i have someone to drive with and how you always seem to know when i’m upset and how you can keep me talking even when my soul goes silent.

“oh,” i say, nodding to the green light ahead of us, switching to yellow, “i told you so.” i pull the car gently to a stop and look over. “green is underneath.”

you lean in. suddenly you’re so close and our mouths are so close and you say, “what color are my eyes?” and i swear to god i try, i mean i honestly try to keep my sight on your eyes and not your lips but god, you’re so close and the car is so quiet and the red light is coming in and i can feel your warmth like every part of the color spectrum and my heart is a gunned engine and

“hey guys?” the voice in the back seat is groggy, “it’s green.”

we both pull back. for a second, i think i see you grit your teeth and sigh, but the moment is passing. “go back to sleep. she’s colorblind,” you say, and i think i imagine a little breathlessness in that soft voice, “she has no idea what she’s doing.”

inkskinned

so i was challenged to do, like, a slam poem and i said, “no, really, i have nothing with which to slam about that i have not already, like, slammed,” and she said: “why don’t you ever get up and perform them you have a million” and i had to look her in the eyes and say: “i’m scared of what happens when the crowd goes silent” the truth is that an echo in me is resounding, that some fear of a raised voice still shakes its fist above me, a cacophony of insecurity, a promise that i’ll fail any trail i lead i know that there’s a word for that now, i know how to breathe through a panic attack now, i know the color of the inside of a hospital, the inside of a doctor’s mouth as they sound out “OCD/ANXIETY" while your ears are ringing oh, i know. i was raised woman so i can’t tell if it’s my mental illness or just my conditioning that has me so tied up about speaking, about all eyes on me, about saying my piece, but since we’re counting i’ll call it 50/50 i’m promised on the regular that all people get stage fright, right did you know that some people, when faced with public speaking would rather actually real-life die what good am i, i wonder, in this world where we all seem to spill out our lives to a bigger audience than ever and teenagers write books that blow mine to shreds and children write poems that tackle bigger issues than mine ever did? but she looked at me, with those hopeful eyes glowing, and she said, "read to me, i’m listening,” and the answer on the tripping of my tongue came to me; some poetry is meant to be sampled in the mouths of your lovers, a plum you both tear apart on a sunday, the curve of her neck when she throws her head back, laughing, some poetry belongs to your heart in a dark way, some lives like litter, always pecking and scratching, i said: if it’s for you, i’ll do it. if it’s for you i’ll get up there and i’ll finally unlatch my tongue from the roof of my mouth so that i can tell you all the words that remind me of you, starting alphabetically no, i might not be the best poet or the right one and yeah, i guess i kind of have anxiety but the truth is that if we turn one heart gold in the world, isn’t that worth it? isn’t that something? so you find the person you need to tell something to even if that person is you and you make something, taunt entropy. create from nothing. stand up with your heart shaking and your knees beating, stand up and say something.

Okay, i guess, pass the mic if you’re insisting // r.i.d (via inkskinned)