holy shit, I thought I was logged out of this thing forever.

blake kathryn

Kiana Khansmith
taylor price
we're not kids anymore.
Misplaced Lens Cap
noise dept.
trying on a metaphor

Love Begins
Sweet Seals For You, Always
styofa doing anything

PR's Tumblrdome
Claire Keane

Discoholic đŞŠ
Xuebing Du
Show & Tell

romaâ
NASA
ojovivo

seen from Yemen
seen from Germany

seen from Netherlands

seen from Malaysia

seen from United States

seen from TĂźrkiye

seen from United States
seen from Brazil
seen from Brazil
seen from Canada
seen from Ukraine
seen from TĂźrkiye
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seen from United States

seen from TĂźrkiye
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@inchesgiven
holy shit, I thought I was logged out of this thing forever.

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If I come I come to raise the deadÂ
Even with all these demons in my headÂ
And if youâve come to raise them tooÂ
If you wait for me, Iâll wait for youÂ
I know I'm basically dead on this website by now, but I have to take a moment to appreciate @tylerlyle some more.
Donât look strange men in the face unless you want them to look back. You canât carry your body around like itâs covered in sequins, or worth shit without making everyone uncomfortable, Sam. Donât blame the world for how it wants to get its hands around your throat â youâre the one who showed up with a throat to begin with.
Sam Sax, from Learning to Breathe Water (via deeplystained)
cole mohr.
Iâll write you letters and Iâll write you songs and you will be endlessly distracting

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Marwene Pallas
Doctrine of Signatures
Collette, In Memory of Ophelia and All Those Who Died of Love and Madness, 1976
Elmgreen & DragsetÂ
From Casa Susanna: Photographs from a 1950s Trans Hideaway
these photos of casa susanna were the first pictures i ever saw of trans women in the past and theyve been important to me since coming out
I love this and itâs so important

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One Week in Makeup Removal Wipes: A Visual Diary
i love everything about this.
Me too! I love doing this.
I miss everyone in this picture more than I can possibly articulate. I miss my Atlanta babies. I miss it all.
Crystal Valentine - âAnd the News Reporter Says Jesus Is Whiteâ. Support the artist, check out the full poem here.
I donât write poetry anymore and nothing can hurt me. I donât write poetry anymore and every river is bleeding towards a home. All I really want is a man to put his hands in my mouth. All I really want is two stones or a sleeping dog or a dead horse. I take long walks from one street corner to another. There are so many little things that make up a life. I look my strangers in the eyes. I am almost always imagining some kind of violence. I cheated this Ramadan. Iâve cheated every Ramadan. I donât write poetry anymore so I donât have to think about my mother. I havenât kissed anyone in months. Iâm not as good as I hoped Iâd be. Yesterday I noticed my front tooth is rotting.
They Named The Girl River, Yasmin Belkhyr (via wildflowerveins)
Everything I write lately is bloated with sadness. When you try to love the world but sheâs all fists, all gut, all blood. I don't know what to do with all of my black girl griefâ maybe auction it off, maybe bottle it, maybe just let it sit in the sun and heat up and cool down again. Let it congeal against the sides of the bowl and scrape it off to start over again the next day. I get off the bus ten stops early so that I can make the long walk home, feel the ground hard and sure beneath my aching feet. I smell like flour, dough, rosemary, the oven that cooks the pizzas. I like how everyone looks at night: warm and drunk and happy, even the trees. I take off my lonely like a bodysuit and put it where I keep my sweaters. I gargle with salt. I moisturize with honey. I remember the bodies that came before mine, the bodies that made it possible for my body to be here now. My friends and I are so pleased with these parties we throw for ourselves. We toast to them at our next awful brunch.
Kristina Haynes, âMy Grief is Available For Pre-Orderâ (via fleurishes)

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