“every time you
tell your daughter
you yell at her
out of love
you teach her to confuse
anger with kindness
which seems like a good idea
till she grows up to
trust men who hurt her
cause they look so much
like you.”—to fathers with daughters - rupi kaur (via rupikaur)
“I don’t give a shit about grand gestures or flowers at my door, I just want your teeth across my neck and my lips pressed to the small of your back, I want your stupid fucking sense of humour making me laugh at 4am when I have to be up at 6.”—(via therealconfused)
“I want you. I want your sleepy confused look when you wake up, and the smile that follows. I want to be the warmth that fills the space in your bed. I don’t want to share you.”—unknown (via swiftbeat)
The men’s movement seems to stay stuck on two points. The first is that men don’t really feel very good about themselves. How could you? The second is that men come to me or to other feminists and say: “What you’re saying about men isn’t true. It isn’t true of me. I don’t feel that way. I’m opposed to all of this.”
And I say: don’t tell me. Tell the pornographers. Tell the pimps. Tell the warmakers. Tell the rape apologists and the rape celebrationists and the pro-rape ideologues. Tell the novelists who think that rape is wonderful. Tell Larry Flynt. Tell Hugh Hefner. There’s no point in telling me. I’m only a woman. There’s nothing I can do about it. These men presume to speak for you. They are in the public arena saying that they represent you. If they don’t, then you had better let them know.
”—Andrea Dworkin - I Want a 24 Hour Truce in Which There is No Rape (via textualcategory)
“Mozart composed his first symphony
at eight years old.
Shakespeare was married at eighteen
and completed his first play at twenty six.
My grandmother carried life in her hips at fifteen
and had three declarations of young love
by the time she was nineteen.
My grandfather had barely gotten over puberty
when he took his first trip-
a tromp over unknown countryside with
a gun on his back and a
stained uniform as his only clothes.
I am twenty and all I feel like doing
is falling asleep until the
another revolution of the sun.”—I’ll Be Well-Rested Once I Turn Twenty-One | Lora Mathis (via lora-mathis)
“Sickness is not so cute and quirky when you’re in your twenties. You’re too busy dying to live. You’re a burden on your parents and your friends. That adorable little habit of bursting pipes is not so nice when you have to pay for the repairs; when you can’t pay rent because you spend all of your money on disposable food; when you waste all of your time being sucked into the mirror. Get out now.”—Michelle K., How do you recover? pt. 2 (via fuckbulimia)
Riding in his car,
with his hand creeping up my thigh,
he tells me that I’m a mystery.
He wants to know
who I was before he touched me,
so he plucks the name of each
past lover from my mouth.
But I am not a graveyard where
mens’ touches have come to die.
There are no tombstones
inside of me, waiting for someone to
blow the dust off of them.
My chest does not come with
names and dates etched into it, so please,
quit looking for the face of each of my ghosts.
There is more to me
than who I have loved.
You will not
learn who I am
by learning how I’ve
”—I Am Not Another Place You Can Die In | Lora Mathis (via lora-mathis)
What To Do When Your Boyfriend’s Asshole Best Friend Says, “Hey, Never Trust Anything That Bleeds For Seven Days And Doesn’t Die,
OR The Only Poem I’ll Ever Write About Periods.
Don’t excuse him because he’s had
at least three lite beers
and is sweating through his black button down
that his mom or exgirlfriend
probably bought him.
Don’t excuse him because he’s been turned down
by the last six girls he went on dates with
after meeting them on tindr
with a picture that’s seven years old
Don’t excuse him because
he’s usually such a nice guy
because you don’t want to be a bitch
because you don’t want to cause a scene
because when you were seventeen
your sister told you
no one likes an angry feminist
Let me explain something to you.
Every goddamn motherfucking month since I was eleven,
a part of me
tore itself to shreds
ripped itself apart inside me
and then remade itself.
So yes, I bleed for seven days
and I don’t die
You know what else can do that?
Things of legend.
Fuck, I can even
So I say, never trust anything that can’t
bleed for seven days and not die.
You know what that makes it?
So let’s see, hon,
What you’re made of.
If you can bleed for seven days
and not die.
Rip out his jugular with your teeth.
And when he bleeds for seven seconds
spit on his corpse and say,
I thought not.