Just A Teen Trying To Find Happiness

Stay gold

[drdaanvondutch]

when you die, you walk into the cold unknown hand in hand with a girl you met once when you were five in a hotel pool and her hand is warm.

[icantwritegood]

love is stored in the child you crossed paths with in a space midway to somewhere else and never saw again

[inkskinned]

the princess stayed in the tower and read books about better girls, where their hands learned how to hold swords, where they rode in on horses. i gave her books as often as i could. she devoured them.

her princes saw her and pretended to be scared off by dragons. got too lost in the thicket. didn’t want to handle it.

“tell me what it’s like, out there,” she whispers to me for the millionth time. i take her from The Throne into her bed, tucking her in and making sure her feet are covered. 

“boring without you” i say as always, “but i did bring back a great story.”

i tell her about how the stars change beyond the equator. how there are places it looks like there are twin suns. how the desert crawls into you but so does snow. i talk about the taste of fruit and promise to bring her back some. she falls asleep while i murmur about rivers, and then in the morning i bring her from bed to Throne, even though she can do it on her own. sometimes she likes help, is all, and i’m happy to give it. 

she doesn’t want help getting dressed. the men come for me, blindfold masters i have almost befriended. the path we take away from her is always different, carefully manufactured so i don’t know exactly where she’s located. after all, a lady might get ideas about things.

they let me go in the queen’s room. i report findings, ask for fruit in the next week’s supplies, am told not to spoil the princess, that she must be kind and waifish and wanting when the prince comes. i spend an hour suggesting that fruit might turn the blood sweeter and am allowed six oranges.

in the next week, she marvels over them. turns them in her calloused hands. smells them. holds them until she can’t control her curiosity, devours them. i bring her books about rivers. i bring her books about deserts. 

“when is our birthday?” she asks me tonight. i’m knitting her a scarf for it.

“soon,” i tell her, “i’ll come by.”

she rolls onto one side, looks up at me in the dimming light. “I’m glad they chose you to be mine,” she says, and i drop a stitch. my heart sings against the inside of my wrists. i blow out a candle so she can’t see the blush and i can’t see her lips. i know what she means, i say. i know what she means.

it’s twenty-three for both of us. i bring her a cake we both eat, her on her throne and me on the floor. i am in the middle of laughing when she falls silent in the still night. “nobody else ever comes for me,” she whispers. i say nothing.

we have more cake, we go to sleep. i don’t know if she knows i’m awake, but i hear her crying.

the men come, the men take me. the one that smells like cedar always laughs at my jokes. the queen half-hates me because i remind her of “that nasty thing” they forced on their daughter. 

“the left wheel needs oil,” i mention, “she’s having trouble turning again.”

the queen’s nose goes up. she never reacts when i mention her daughter’s wheelchair by name - doesn’t find it funny we call it a throne, thinks it’s well enough to leave alone.

“well, she’ll have a prince in this next month coming for her,” says the queen, “i’ve arranged it all,” says the queen, “he’s … had the situation explained to him first this time. i thought it would be best,” says the queen. “we’re paying him…. quite a lot for his effort,” says the queen.

situation. she means that her daughter can’t walk very far. she means the situation of towers. i excuse myself. i find my girl books about turning down marriage. i’m not sure why. it’s all she’s ever wanted.

they blindfold me and take me. cedar laughs at my jokes. the sawdust one is here this time, even he chuckles at a few. we ride horses through places i’ll never see clearly. 

“so according to the queen this is the last time i’m needed, huh?” i ask them as they walk me blindly up too many stairs for my girl to make it down, “i’m sorry i never made your acquaintance.”

cedar laughs. he takes off my blindfold and for a second, lets me see his face. “it’s been an honor,” he says, shaking my hand, “you’ve been a perfect lady.”

i spend the day with my princess pretending i am not peeling apart from my bones. i just want her to be happy. to get to come home. 

it’s late. “do you think in a past life i was a mermaid?” she asks.

“almost definitely,” i tell her. 

it’s quiet for a while after. “what if,” she whispers, “i don’t want to leave?”

i sit up and look at her from across the room. 

“it’s just,” she says, “i have you here and all the books i need and nobody makes me walk too long and i don’t feel like… like i’m wrong here.”

i want to tell her she’s never been wrong. that she’s always fit into my heart like a puzzle piece. that, more importantly, the leadership i see in her glows like a fire - that, no matter her body, she’s always been kind and gentle and smart and sweet. a princess that could bring a nation to her feet and do so lovingly.

“it will be okay,” i say, “there’s more fruit to discover.”

she doesn’t say anything. i think i’ve ruined something by accident, but i don’t know what. i don’t really sleep. i don’t say anything when the men come take me.

the world outside without her is boring. no mermaids. i put my hand in a river once a day, just thinking about her. 

two weeks later i am awoken by my name, and a voice i recognize perfectly. cedar stands above me in the darkness. “i know two things in this world,” he says to me, “and one of them is about love.”

this time we make the trip without blindfolds. i see the squalor they keep her in. i see the waste surrounding her castle, the terrible place she’s in. rage fuels my footsteps even when they start flagging. 

the prince is already there. he has dropped her twice, cedar tells me. i am already running up the stairs even though i can barely breathe. i hear her crying through the door and i don’t need to get ready - the fire that starts in me burns so brightly.

i roar inside. turn dragon and beat back prince with girl made rage. the bruises on her body turn me into giant snake. i eat the man alive, or at least i chase him from the place, never to be seen again. later i will hear a rumor about a demon that stole the princess from him.

she cries into my arms. i take her down every single stair. i hear her murmur her thanks into my hair and then i kiss her, because i can’t handle it, because i have places to show her and she has my heart to lead.

my house isn’t much but it’s near a river. she likes putting her hands into it. i take her places when she is able, and otherwise i bring the places back. we read books together. cedar no longer works for the queen, but he’d rather live with the man of sawdust making tiny wooden figurines.

i lie in bed next to her, stroking her soft hair. “do you think i was a centaur in a past life?” she asks.

“definitely,” i tell her, and kiss her, gently. she holds my face and pulls herself closer to me.

“will i be a good queen? i mean, in this life?”

“i’m certain of it,” i reply. i can hear the truth ring in it. the bone-deep certainty.

she’s quiet for a moment. “you saved me,” she whispers, “and usually we’d end up married. but…”

i don’t know how to answer that. i feel ice down my spine suddenly.

“i’m not demanding, is all,” her voice shakes, “i’m asking this time. for you to choose me. for me to be yours, i mean. and for you to be mine. permanently.”

the next birthday we celebrate, we are both queens.

[inkskinned]

you live you live you live

and the world turns because you live, and that’s unfortunate, isn’t it,but that’s beautiful, isnt it,because the first 2 years it’s not worth it because the sorrow slinks into the corners like cockroaches, because all this work adds up to nothing but in year three you tell a story and everybody laughs at it, and you think: i made it, i made itand you live, and you go skinny dipping and you go and get that tatttoo you’ve been wanting and you go and cross things off your list because it matters,doesn’t itit matters because you dreamed it and even though sometimes (often)you wake up empty of it,you still wake up and do it, still wake up and survive it in a way that doesn’t make it feel good,just like a forced kissyou also wake up and feel love in every portion of your bones now,a flash like a river of love now, a survivalthat feels like love nowand you live, and you live, and you live,and god, isn’t thatexcellent.

[parkerstorms]

“When doctors stick their fists into the chest cavities of human beings, they leave something behind, some sadness that glues itself to the insides of the operated ribs. It is as if your heart knows it has been exposed to the sky and it is mourning the loss of light. It grows dark when they break you open. For some reason, you know the call is coming before it does. He says it’s over between you and him and you thought you were ready for it but instead you find yourself shaking and sobbing with the same nauseous out-of-control feeling as when you were seven and spun over your handlebars and hit your head against the concrete. His words are a high-speed collision without a helmet. This is what it feels like when you put the phone down: it feels as if you are lying with cold feet on the crinkled paper of a hospital table and there is an ongoing surgery occurring without anesthesia. Every doctor has his face. You picture the small moments that are being carefully plucked from your sternum - no more quiet moments while you sort clean clothing, no more ice cream trips at two in the morning, no more waking up before him to see the sun shift through his eyelashes, no more summer days with bare legs tangled on beaches, no more kissing him, no more curling up near him, no more him. And you hate that you want it all back, that you would take everything you have and trade it for another chance to feel him beside you. You are not someone’s princess and you never were. Your mother did not raise you with a wolf in your chest so you could howl over losing a man. But here you are, open-heart operation in progress while he cleanly snips out his connection to you. That’s it. No more future. He leaves you there, bones bent back to make room for the hole he has punched in you. You are the one in charge of your recovery, but you have shaky hands and there aren’t enough band-aids for a hurt like this. Every time you make a peanutbutter sandwich or listen to your favorite music or stare up at the ceiling, you remember him and the stitches come undone again. And your friends grow weary of hearing your story and hearing how you called him drunk and hearing how you hate him and hearing how you love him in an almost impossibly unending way and hearing how you’ll never be the same and hearing how you’re feeling better really and hearing how you’re back in the same sad space and your mouth grows wearing of saying his name like each letter was a prison wall and one day you don’t speak of him at all. You carry the scar but you no longer flinch when the sharpness of this world brushes against your chest. You are wolf, and you might be wounded, but one day you will get over it. You are still waiting for when that moment hits.”

— Soft dies the light (part two of five) /// r.i.d (via inkskinned)

[inkskinned]

oh, this feeling again. you put so much energy into this moment, into this relationship, and it gets eaten and devoured rather than turned back to fuel you. how many times, little sun? how many times can you dance around like this in your warm skin, saying: i'm fine. i'm fine! i love trying so hard.

let yourself be consumed on the stage. why not. nobody is really looking anyway.

[subbyhillygirl]

submissive Student - Story #1

I stretch and turn my face into my pillow. It’s early. Too damn early to be awake, that’s for sure. Just as I gather the energy to roll over and check the clock, a strong hand brushes along the exposed side of my neck. I smile wide, suddenly fully awake. I know that touch. Goosebumps follow the path of his fingers, and I hold my breath, waiting. 

“Good morning, beautiful.” Sir’s voice is low, like a roll of thunder. His British accent is still such a turn on, even after all these months. His hand coasts up over my shoulder, down my arm, past my waist, and pauses on my hip. His hot breath fans over the place his hands just vacated, chasing away the chills. 

“Are you sore?” he whispers close to my ear. His fingers flexing and releasing on my hip distract me and my answer gets caught in my throat. A light slap to my thigh brings me out of my head long enough to reply.

“Umpf - No, Sir.” I say, my eyes closed against the sting of his palm.

“Look at me,” he commands, slipping his hand inside my panties to cup between my legs. “Are you sure?” he asks in a whisper. 

Twisting my body slightly, I get a glimpse of him for the first time since last night, and feel my cheeks flame as a slideshow of our sexcapades from last night begins to play in my mind. His strong jaw partially hidden by the stubble of his beard, his gaze clear and direct behind his glasses, searching my face as he looks at me with intent, awaiting my answer.

Breathily, I manage, “Which response will make you keep touching me, Sir?” 

His chuckle is low and sexy, but it’s his smile that’s almost too much, nearly blinding with its beauty. Sometimes he is simply too handsome. I hadn’t asked the question to be funny, but belatedly I realize how desperate I sound; how desperate I actually am.

“The truth will do just fine,” he replies, his expression still amused, but I can still see the genuine concern in his eyes. He reaches up and brushes his thumb across my flushed cheek with his free hand, and my heart trips. 

“I am sore,” I say truthfully. “But I’m fine. I promise.” I smile, trying to reassure him. He looks at me for a long moment before apparently deciding my answer is an honest one.

“On your back.” He says as he removes his hand from my panties. Not a request, but rather a demand that sends a thrill through my entire body. I reposition as quickly as I possibly can, while trying not to look too eager. 

I watch as he turns and pushed the blanket to the floor, taking advantage of the brief seconds he’s facing away to admire his back, muscles and sinew flexing with each tiny movement. Turning back to me, he gently clasps one of my ankles in each large hand, and begins to massage my calves, pressing into the muscle. Leisurely he keeps on working, his palms rubbing up and down the outside of my thighs, heating my skin until his hands fist in the delicate lace of my panties. I feel his muscles contract a moment before the sound of ripping fabric fills the otherwise quiet room. The noise makes my clit throb, and I try to lift my hips, a silent plea for him to relieve the ache that has taken up residence there.

Kneeling between my thighs, he leans forward and presses his calloused palms into my breasts, scraping, pinching my nipples between his fingertips and causing them to harden. I mewl, arching my back, begging for more contact, craving a firmer touch. 

“I won’t be easy, darling,” he says.

Words are so far beyond me, all I can do is nod at him, mouth open, breath already bursting past my parted lips too fast. 

“Now,” he murmurs, “hands on the posts behind you. Keep them there unless I instruct you otherwise, do you understand?”

“Y-Yes. —Sir.” I add hastily, moving my arms and positioning my hands as instructed. The corner of his mouth lifts in a slight smile. “Good girl.” he praises, and I feel the effects of his words where his erection teases the lips of my increasingly wet sex. Taking himself in hand, he begins to trace the seam of my pussy with the tip of his cock, spreading my moisture.

With no warning at all, he thrusts forward, seating himself fully inside me, and I can’t stop myself from crying out in shock. He is too big. Too thick. Jesus, it hurts. I begin to thrash unintentionally, and my hands fly to his hard chest in an effort to stay his movements.

“Shhh…” he soothes, brushing the hair from my sweat-damp forehead. “Breathe for me.”

I groan, hardly hearing his words over the roar of blood rushing in my ears, but my body begins to obey without my conscious permission. My breathing slowly evens out, and my muscles start to uncoil. It’s only when I begin to pull my hands away from where they’d been pressed against his skin that I realize what I’ve done. Slowly opening my eyes, I find him staring at my hands, now awkwardly fisted and pressed close to my own body like a shield. 

“Hands. On. The. Posts,” he re-instructs. “Now.”

I feel as though I’ve been dropped in a pool of ice water. His tone is frigid, and his eyes are just as hard. Quickly and with no hesitation, I place my hands back on the posts, wrapping my fingers tightly around them and he nods once with approval.  

“You’ll pay for that later, but for now, I plan to enjoy you,” he says, sharply flexing his hips once for emphasis, and a ragged moan escapes my lips. I can already feel the soreness this will leave behind, but I crave it; enjoy it. He begins to withdraw, and I immediately miss the too-full sensation, but he’s back before I can form a protest. He sets a rhythm, fast, forceful, jarring my body with each of his thrusts, filling me to capacity, and withdrawing again. My mouth opens on a silent scream. I try to speak, but his mouth devours mine, swallowing my incoherent pleas for more, and faster. His lips glance off the side of my mouth, beard stubble scraping my jaw, and finally, finally, his teeth are nipping sharply at my neck. I hear myself gasping and crying out, but I’m not forming words.

Much too soon, a familiar pressure begins to build low in my belly. White hot sensation spreads, radiating from the place where he hits the end of me on each inward stroke, and I know I have to get myself together enough to speak. I try to even out my breathing, force my brain to cooperate with my mouth.

“Pl-ease…” I stutter. 

“Please, who?”

“Pl-ease, Sir,” I beg, my words breathy and strained as I continue to absorb the force of his body thrusting into mine. “I’m so close.”

“You need it, don’t you?” He taunts harshly.

“Yesss” I hiss. I’m so afraid I won’t be able to stop myself, and I tighten my hands on the posts behind my head, fingers going numb in my effort to maintain a modicum of control. 

“You want to cum, darling?” he asks casually. 

“Yes, Sir, please.”

“You disobeyed me,” he says, slowing slightly and lessening the force of his movements. “Young ladies who don’t follow orders don’t get to cum.”

Nooo! 

Suddenly he pulls out completely, and I’m left gasping, teetering on the edge of oblivion. I try to pull my legs together to hold in the sensation, alleviate the hollowness of his absence, but he braces my thighs apart with his hands on my knees. 

“Turn over, ass in the air, resting on your elbows. Do not cum, darling, or you’ll regret it.”

Turn over. Turn over. Turn over. I’m chanting in my mind, trying to remember what the words mean. My brain is jumbled and refusing to cooperate with my limbs.

WHACK! A hard slap lands high on my thigh, and finally everything clicks. My body begins to respond to his dictate, and before I know it, I find myself positioned exactly how he wants me, ass in the air, knees spread, face turned into the mattress in the direction of the headboard with my forearms supporting most of my weight. I feel him move off the bed, my hearing acute now that he’s out of my sight. A drawer opens and shuts, and I hear something tear. Velcro? 

“Girls who can’t keep their hands to themselves must be restrained,” he says as he kneels next to me on the bed. The mattress dips under his weight, and I feel my heart thunder with the anxiety of not knowing what he’ll do next. He fastens a black cuff around each of my wrists, and hastily clips my now bound hands to a link attached to the bed. Oh god. I’m trapped. The realization dawns on me, and instinctively, I check the security of my bonds. I hear a low chuckle as He rises from the bed and moves behind me.

“Girls who can’t keep their hands to themselves must be spanked,” he says, a second before his hard palm collides painfully with my left ass cheek in a loud THWACK!  Pain explodes across my ass and I jump hard, partially from the bite of the blow, but mostly from the shock. 

“Count,” he demands, “and if you miscount, we will start again.”

“One,” I whisper in confusion. Why does this feel good?

THWACK! THWACK! THWACK!

“Two, th-ree, f-our.” 

By the time Sir reaches the tenth swat, my ass is on fire, stinging and throbbing like nothing I’ve ever felt before. But as the pain begins to ebb, I notice another feeling. Unbelievably keen arousal. Oh my god, I’m about to cum.

“Sir!” I say loudly. I know I need to tell him - need to ask quickly, before it’s too late.

“I know, love. You need to cum, don’t you?”

“Yes, Sir! Oh god… Please?” I beg frantically. His hand sweeps in around my waist and presses down on my clit with the tips of his fingers. 

“How bad, darling? Tell me how much you need it.”

“I can’t — please! Fuck, fuck, fuck…” He begins circling my clit, and I’m there. I’m right there, and just as I realize I can’t hold on a moment longer, he drives high and hard inside me.

“Cum, now!” he shouts. And I do, thrashing and convulsing, squeezing him like a vise as he keeps thrusting, pushing and pulling with punishing determination. His hand threads into my hair, jerking my head back and using my scalp as leverage. 

“Fuck,” he says, just before pulling out. I can hear his hand flying up and down the length of his cock, and soon I feel rope after rope of his cum landing hot against my already heated skin, and he groans long and loud, his fist still tightly gripping my hair. 

My legs are quivering under my weight and I collapse to my side as soon as he releases his hold on my scalp. My mind is completely empty, my body replete, and before I even realize it, I’ve closed my eyes, and I’m asleep.

A few hours later, I wake and manage to drag myself out of bed. My body still buzzing with pleasure from my interlude with Sir. I know he’s gone, but part of me always hopes he’ll stay. He must have cleaned me up and untied me earlier without waking me — not unbelievable considering I sleep like the dead after an orgasm like that. 

Shuffling into the kitchen to set up the coffee pot, I’m surprised to see that it’s already made. What the…? A folded piece of paper rests against a mug that’s been set out for my use. My heart rate picks up, fingers trembling as I pick it up and read:

Thought you might need this. I was hard on you last night.  Until next week, darling.

— Sir

|ORIGINAL EROTIC D/s FICTION BY SubbyHillyGirl. © Copyright 2014 SubbyHillyGirl. Tumblr followers have limited right to reblog on tumblr only without alteration to the original post. All other rights reserved.|

[the-treasures-untold-deactivate]

Okay so I’m watching my friend’s cats while she’s away and she left me descriptions so I could tell who’s who

They’re pretty accurate 

[welcome2khaos]

oh god why is this me lol help

[olivialovesleggings-deactivated]

I’m so glad this came back into my life

[toujours-fidele-deactivated2018]

ahahahahahahah omg 

[anxietyproblem]

[kursedkitties]

What if we kissed in the fridge??? Just kidding. Unless...?

[cursed-kat-images]

😳😳😳

[inkskinned]

i had plenty of lovers leave me, and it hurt. there was a warmth and then suddenly there was nothing. 

but it was when my friends left me that i was torn open. i don’t know if it was that there was no final goodbye, no sense of closure; that they simply made excuses and drifted. i would sit there, wondering if i was making it up, watching them take hours to respond to simple questions. i don’t know if it was that the people i needed to talk to were the ones now missing. i don’t know if it was that i was suddenly alone in a new way, in an ugly loneliness that sent me into dark corners. 

you miss long-lost lovers when you listen to adele, when you see two people kissing, when it’s raining. but you miss friends always, always, always.

[inkskinned]

i promise you, you forget.   they say that your first love is the one that never comes out, that years later you’re still carrying the wound around    but in five years, you’ll be drinking  a good hot chocolate and laughing, and while suddenly you wonder what happened  to them, where they are now, what they’d think of you:   it no longer stings.   it becomes okay. they didn’t love you and it messed you up for a long time but the good news is  the girl they loved  doesn’t really exist anymore, and while she was beautiful   you’re happier than her.

to my past self // r.i.d (via inkskinned)

[inkskinned]

losing you was a summer-long sunburn. everything hurt to touch. i couldn’t sleep, every position was a blister. i felt dried out, clammy and too hot at the same time, so tired and yet always awake. the worst part was that it still hurt after it faded. the worst part was that others looked and me and said they understood that kind of pain, but eventually rolled their eyes when i brought you up, telling me i should have known better than to not cover my little heart up. the worst part was driving home and seeing the turn i would have taken and feeling that flash roll up my skin. no the worst part was breakfast without you in it. no the worst part was just you. just you. just not having you ever again.

[inkskinned]

if you cannot talk to him honestly about sex, do not have sex with him. if he pressures you in any way, do not have sex with him. if other girls tell you that he’s not nice when you get to know him, if you hear him saying things about his ex girlfriends that are downright cruel, if he isn’t nice to waitresses - do not have sex with him. i know he might seem to treat you differently, that you are his “special person”. it’s a lie; he will wait until you completely trust him and he will destroy you until you are scared to leave him. and you should leave him.

if she doesn’t want protection but you do, do not have sex with her. if you’re only doing it because everyone else does, do not have sex with her. if she doesn’t let you cry, if she ignores you in public to flirt with others, if she tells you she will die without you - do not have sex with her. i know she can be gentle and funny and knows you like a good friend. it is a lie; she is using you and she will keep using you until your head spins. you do not deserve to be played with. you deserve to be free.

sex should be easy. sex should be fun. if you are not ready to try rough things first, you shouldn’t feel pressured into them. if you need to spend a year in a gentle missionary, there is nothing wrong with that. if your partner starts something rough and doesn’t let you stop? you need to leave them. if you are not ready for something, there is nothing wrong with that. if you realize halfway through that you don’t want it to continue, you can stop. there is a culture which punishes the partner who doesn’t “finish the job.” if you need to be done, you are done. and your partner should understand that. i mean this in every step, from kisses to the full ship sailing. sex is a case-by-case basis. even if you wanted bondage two hours ago, right now you are allowed to say no. every time you are allowed to say no. 

i mean this in every relationship. cruelty is not specific to the number of partners, to genders, to sexualities. you can love her to your bones and she can ruin you just the same no matter who you are. he can still manipulate you no matter what you want. sex shouldn’t be a weapon. it should be about joy. about the other person, but also about you. if you at any point don’t trust them: sex will not cure that. sex cannot cure a broken relationship, even if it feels like it did in the instant. trust your instincts.

[inkskinned]

am i wearing this because it looks nice or because i’ve been trained that looking nice is imperative. do i want to get my hair dyed because i like the color or because it’s the latest trend. do i feel good when i look good or do i just feel like this is how i’m supposed to be. like i’m in an audition room. are heels good because i love how they click or did i just discover their sound while trying to be tall enough i could climb out of this body. do i like eating healthy because it makes me feel good or have i been taught that the two are synonyms. do i love makeup for the ritual, for the armor it gives me, or do i love it because i wasn’t accepted until i wore it. do i not own pink because it’s not my color or because i’m subliminally trying to distance myself from traditional femininity. do i like this dress or do i like it because of how others will see me. how much of my personality, my private choices, how much of these are really me and not just years and years of constant behavioral training. i reclaimed dresses and lipstick and long hair. or did i just give up and give into the whole thing. 

girls are told that when we refuse to look nice, it’s a sign something is wrong. we are told that if our nails are done and our hair is perfect, we’re having a good day. it feels like that. it feels like that.

but does it feel like that because i was told?

[inkskinned]

it’s not about that i know how to do laundry. it’s that when i was four i knew how to fold clothes; small hands working alongside my mother, while my older brother sat and played with his toys. it’s that i know what kind of detergent works but my father guesses. it’s that in my freshman year of college i had a line of boys who needed me to show them how to use the machine. it’s that the first door they knocked on belonged to me. it’s that they expected me to know.

it’s not that i know how to cook. it’s that the biggest christmas present i got was a little plastic kitchenette i never used except to climb on. it’s that my brother used it more, his hands ghosting over pink buttons and yellow dials. it’s that when my work needs cake for a birthday, they turn to me. i get it from costco. i don’t even like cooking. a boy burns popcorn in the dorm microwave and laughs. a week later, i do the same thing, and he snorts at me, “just crossed you off my wife list.” it’s that i had heard something like this so many times before that i laughed, too.

it’s not that i don’t love being feminine. it’s that i came home with bruises from trying to be a trick rider on my bike and heard the word “tomboy,” felt my little mouth say, “but i’m not a boy, i’m a girl”. it’s that they laughed. it’s that until i was sitting in my pretty dress and smiling with a big pretty smile and blinking my big pretty eyes, i wasn’t given back the title “girl”. it’s that until i wore makeup and styled my hair i was bullied; it’s that when i don’t wear makeup i’m a slob, that my mental health diagnosis hangs on the hook of being dressed up. it’s that my therapist sees me returning to bright red lipstick and tells me i am looking happier and i have to explain that i am more sad than i have ever been. it’s that i dress myself in as many layers as i can every time i ride a train because it’s better to be laughed at than harassed. 

it’s not that i know how to clean, it’s that my brother’s chores were outside where i wanted to be, and mine were inside. it’s that i would have weeded the garden better than he did if they had just let me. it’s that i am put in charge of fixing other’s messes, expected to comply without complaint.

it’s not that i can’t open the jar. it’s that you ask my brother first every time. it’s that i am pushed into docile positions, trained to believe that my body when it’s strong and healthy is ugly, trained into being less, weaker. it’s that the jar is also science, is also engineering, is also every job, every opportunity. it’s that you laugh faster when he tells a joke, that you take him seriously but wave off me, that when he raises his voice he’s assertive but when i do i’m hysterical. the jar is getting into a car with a stranger as a driver and wondering if this is our last ride. the jar is knowing that if something happens to us, it’s our fault. 

it’s that i’m weak and i don’t know if it’s because i just am or i was trained to be. it’s that we need to sit pretty with our pretty smiles and our pretty words trapped pretty and silent in our throats, our hands restless but pretty when idle, our bodies vessels for nothing but a future white dress. it’s that we are taught someone else needs to open the jar for us.

here’s the secret: run metal lids under hot water, they’ll expand faster than the glass they’re around. here’s the secret: when you keep us under hot water, we do more than boil. we expand over our edges. and we learn how to open our mouths, our claws, our screams hanging in kites over cities. just give me a chance. give me a chance when i am four when i am seven when i am twenty-three. i promise i can be amazing. give me the jar. i’ll show you something.

[inkskinned]

you should call your mom back, and apologize, even if you’re not sure why  you’re sorry, just that you have been, for awhile now,  just sorry  tell her that your stove caught on fire the first time you actually used it, laugh, tell her “actually, you were right, i have no idea  how to cook,” text your best friend back, i know she and you are growing apart  but it’s okay, not all gaps are  impossible to tread across tell her that last night you ate so much you felt like you were going to explode  sixteen cups of spinach because  it was all that was left in the fridge and  calories don’t count if they’re vegetables say, “i have no idea why i bought it, i hate that shit,” invite her over to eat ice cream next time instead. make the bed. take a shower. shave your legs or your head, whichever makes you feel less burdened. don’t message your ex. i know you’re lonely in a way that is icing your blood so your  heart is stuttering in your chest instead write a letter to your grandmother you know she loves them and besides she gets lonely, too, maybe she’ll explain how to survive to you, say, “hey, it’s been a while  i’m on my own now, but grandma, i think i’m kinda getting the hang of this, so thanks for watching out for us kids.” go to sleep, my love. everything seems better in the morning sun.

twenty-somethings with empty wallets // r.i.d (via inkskinned)

[inkskinned]

dandelion girl with  her heart all full of the wind, a wildchild songbird    oh god but i fell for her in the backseat of a car when her fingers found mine in the shy dark    we get drunk under the stars and make a blanket fort in her back yard  and when she leans forward she asks me  where i want to kiss her but every inch of her takes the breath out of me,   i want to kiss her on her nose on her lips over coffee under trees - where do i want to kiss her? how do you unfold a map of infinity?

Give it all to me // r.i.d (via inkskinned)