Have enough courage to trust love one more time and always one more time.
Maya Angelou (via cosmicspread)

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@woundedbydust1331
Have enough courage to trust love one more time and always one more time.
Maya Angelou (via cosmicspread)

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Bon Iver - For Emma (a capella)Â
My body is not a temple, pt. 2*
after a year of hoping that I would find a way to write this poem again - hope is always better, even at the risk of coming across as trite or real fucking corny.Â
My legs are always scattered with bruises, blue against the pale until they collide with rows of stripes, Raised faint pink lines and white circles, ridges breaking up the texture, an interruption of what it feels like a body should be what I should what.
Everything has always been too big too small too much space taken up taking away from the air around me and men look at me like bait, like whatever beauty I have is not my own. I ate lunch today anyway, and I'm getting better at letting people touch me for the right reasons                                 (not out of fear, compulsion                             retribution, some desperate need                                            for validation                              back when the only options were                                   seemed like hurting myself                             or finding someone who wanted me                             back when it was all about want                             because what came after was just                                                  more                                            hurting myself)
My body is not a temple, but you know it has never failed me the way I failed it, it never collapsed, even as I deprived it of so much, and I keep crashing into everything but the bruises heal scar tissue softens.Â
My body is not a temple, but maybe it is home, a place where I can curl up at night, with the earth still moving outside, and if my body were a sacred place, I would let it take up all the space it needs and pray that it keeps me soft.Â
A Softer World: 911
(it isnât the storm that makes the ocean dangerous.)
buy this print

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It is hard to stop loving the ocean, even after it has left you gasping, salty, so forgive yourself for the decisions you've made, the ones you still call mistakes when you tuck them in at night, and know this: know you are the type of woman who is searching for a place to call yours. Let the statues crumble, you have always been the place. You are a woman who can build it yourself. You were born to build.
The Type, Sarah Kay.Â
on eczema and metaphors
I am flesh and blood. I am organs and skin, I suppose I am even my memories, what I am not is a metaphor, even though the form is so much easier to slip into than myself I am not someone who wishes to be a poem rather than a poet. I don't want to be a thing of beauty, I want to create and go on wanting like the drought soaked country I will never be, that will never know how to want Because wanting is conscious and I am so conscious, I am distant, but I am so conscious. I know that my words come out like letters to whoever is occupying my mind, but they are always for me, not 'you' and the words will stay when 'you' are long gone and all the symbols I used in place of 'your' name are tainted.
This was never for you. This is not for you. You are no more a poem than I am, dear and I am not a metaphor, I am conscious, I am breathing, I am the freckles on my left arm, the scars on my knees, the eczema on the back of my neck, and that is more than enough for one person to be.Â
Be soft. Do not let the world make you hard. Do not let pain make you hate. Do not let the bitterness steal your sweetness.
Kurt Vonnegut (via psych-facts)
we can stop saying sorry now
(or, poem for a second love: the inevitable break up poem)
Gardiner's Creek rushed earlier this week, now it is still and the trail into the city is quiet. I pass the mirage of someone I knew in high school but he is too young to be that boy I almost loved, too small, and it has been too long for me to look for him. I have always struggled to be where I am.
                                   ("you're such a good person,                                  I hate that I'm doing this to you")
The air is cold and clear in Richmond, I, with a stolen red umbrella, am safe from whatever the night might become, even if I don't know if I'll ever feel safe in love again.
In Preston I kiss someone who shares your name, but oh, he kisses so differently,          and when we sleep                  on a mattress on the floor of a crowded room, he holds me differently, his hands find different spaces and his skin and his voice and everything take me so far away from you (just a few suburbs over). I wake up early and happy, and so far away from you.                               (all those nights you couldn't sleep                                your restlessness became mine,                                     we left each other so tired)
Maybe I am a woman who is 'difficult' to love all intensity and unashamed openness, poems, letters, indecisiveness and anxiety like water that spills over onto the people I choose to love and texts you after midnight asking what I should eat, But I know where I am. I know where I stand, where I've been, And I know that I can choose to view my life not as one long story of loss, but as how I have learnt to love in spite of everything, And I will learn to love without you.Â
I cut my hair in my bedroom, and start to feel new. You said I wasn't an idiot for loving you. One day I will learn to believe that, and all the dirt from the past 15 months will start to wash away.Â
This is a culture war. The right side is winning, at great cost. At great personal costs to people like Anita Sarkeesian, Leigh Alexander, Zoe Quinn and even Jennifer Lawrence, and countless others who are on the frontlines of creating new worlds for women, for girls, for everyone who believes that stories matter and there are too many still untold. We are winning. We are winning because we are more resourceful, more compassionate, more culturally aware. Weâre winning because we know what itâs like to fight through adversity, through shame and pain and constant reminders of our own worthlessness, and come up punching. We know weâre winning because the terrified rage of a million mouthbreathing manchild misogynists is thick as nerve gas in the air right now. Us Social Justice Warriors â this is me, stealing that word in order to use it against my enemies- are winning the culture war by tearing up the rulebook, and thereâs nothing the sad, mad little boys who hate women and queers and people of colour can do about it. Nothing, at least, that doesnât sabotage their strategy, because they can win their game from day to day, but theyâre losing the war. They can punish me for writing this, and Iâm sure they will, but that will only prove my point. Iâm not afraid anymore. Every time they make an example of one of us, ten more stand up in outrage to hold her up or take her place. We are stronger, smarter and more numerous than anyone imagined, and we are not to be fucked with.
Excerpt from WHY WEâRE WINNING: SOCIAL JUSTICE WARRIORS AND THE NEW CULTURE WAR by Laurie Penny (via femfreq)

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Now we have a TV show called Girls, about girls who hurt but constantly disclaim their hurting⌠These girls arenât wounded so much as post-wounded, and I see their sisters everywhere. Theyâre over it. I am not a melodramatic person. God help the woman who is. What Iâll call âpost-woundedâ isnât a shift in deep feeling (we understand these women still hurt) but a shift away from wounded affect - these women are aware that âwoundednessâ is overdone and overrated. They are wary of melodrama so they stay numb and clever instead. Post-wounded women make jokes about being wounded or get impatient with women who hurt too much. The post-wounded woman conducts herself as if preempting certain accusations: donât cry too loud, donât play victim, donât act the old role all over again. Donât ask for pain meds you donât need; donât give those doctors another reason to doubt the other women on their examination tables. Post-wounded women fuck men who donât love them and then they feel mildly sad about it, or just blasĂŠ about it, more than anything they refuse to care about it, refuse to hurt about it - or else they are endlessly self-aware about the posture they have adopted if they allow themselves this hurting. The post-wounded posture is claustrophobic. Itâs full of jadedness, aching gone implicit, sarcasm quick-on-the-heels of anything that might look like self-pity. I see it in female writers and their female narrators, troves of stories about vaguely dissatisfied women who no longer fully own their feelings. Pain is everywhere and nowhere. Post-wounded women know that postures of pain play into limited and outmoded conceptions of womanhood. Their hurt has a new native language spoken in several dialects: sarcastic, apathetic, opaque; cool and clever. They guard against those moments when melodrama or self-pity might split their careful seams of intellect. We have sewn ourselves up. We bring everything to the grindstone.
"The Empathy Exams" by Leslie Jamison
This is such an important book, but goddamn if this passage wasnât the one that brought me to tears. We have been told and told ourselves we are no longer allowed to fully feel and express our pain and it is bullshit.
(via queeringfeministreality)
itâs been really difficult to shift myself away from being post-wounded in the past couple of years, and to work out who woundedness is safe around. and it still puzzles me sometimes, how much is an affect and how much is me. how much feeling I have.
(via sophisti-cunted)
This is how thoroughly we women have been sexualized, that we cannot make the kind of noises that come with physical exertion without it being associated with sex. In fact, everything about our bodies has been sexualized in one way or another. If we groan during sport or we breast-feed in public, we are criticized for making people think about sex. If we talk openly about things like menstruation and poop and farts, then we are criticized for making people not want to think about sex. Think about what it means to be ladylike and all of the adjectives that go along with it: elegant, cultured, classy, sophisticated. To be successful at being feminine means being successful at being private, keeping your bodyâs natural functions behind closed doors and never letting anyone know they exist. It means to be constrained, that you do not let your legs spread wide in public transportation and you do not make noises that are harsh on the ears. It means presenting a polished, shiny surface to the world at all times, one that allows others to project whatever they wish onto you while never showing too much of your true self.
Womenâs tennis and the gender politics of grunting (via health-time)
Times were tough and love was not enough, so you said sorry Johnny Iâm gone, gone, gone, you said my act was funny, but we both knew what was missing, honey, so you lit out on your own.
Now that pretty form that youâve got baby, will make sure you get along, but youâre going to find out some day, honey, When youâre alone, youâre alone.
"I wouldnât know what to do with another chance if you gave it to me I couldnât take the embrace of a real romance, itâd race right through me, Iâm much better off the way things are Much, much better off, better by far.
Patterns that you walk away from wait around for you to fall back into and once you're back it's like no time has passed at all. I don't know how I feel about this version of myself other than inevitable. I'm just tired.

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At the time, I forgot that life is strange and long and beautiful... It should have been enough to love and to be loved, but there was more, I thought, because at some point everything changed from my simply wanting more of him to my wanting more of something else - something substantive, something normal.
Eveline, 'Anthropology of an American Girl'
The Woman Against Feminism Twitter is my favorite.