February 12, 2014
"

When you are hurting, there will always be people who find a way to make it about themselves. If you break your wrist, they’ll complain about a sprained ankle. If you are sad, they’re sadder. If you’re asking for help, they’ll demand more attention.

Here is a fact: I was in a hospital and sobbing into my palms when a woman approached me and asked why I was making so much noise and I managed to stutter that my best friend shot himself in the head and now he was 100% certified dead and she made this little grunt and had the nerve to tell me, “Well now you made me sad.”

When you get angry, there are going to be people who ask you to shut up and sit down, and they’re not going to do it nicely. Theirs are the faces that turn bright red before you have a chance to finish your sentence. They won’t ask you to explain yourself. They’ll be mad that you’re mad and that will be their whole reason alone.

Here is a fact: I was in an alleyway a few weeks ago, stroking my friend’s back as she vomited fourteen tequila shots. “I hate men,” she wheezed as her sides heaved, “I hate all of them.”

I braided her hair so it wouldn’t get caught in the mess. I didn’t correct her and reply that she does in fact love her father and her little brother too, that there are strangers she has yet to meet that will be better for her than any of her shitty ex-boyfriends, that half of our group of friends identifies as male - I could hear each of her bruises in those words and I didn’t ask her to soften the blow when she was trying to buff them out of her skin. She doesn’t hate all men. She never did.

She had the misfortune to be overheard by a drunk guy in an ill-fitting suit, a boy trying to look like a man and leering down my dress as he stormed towards us. “Fuck you, lady,” he said, “Fuck you. Not all men are evil, you know.”

“Thanks,” I told him dryly, pulling on her hand, trying to get her inside again, “See you.”

He followed us. Wouldn’t stop shouting. How dare she get mad. How dare she was hurting. “It’s hard for me too!” he yowled after us. “With fuckers like you, how’s a guy supposed to live?”

Here’s a fact: my father is Cuban and my genes repeat his. Once one of my teachers looked at my heritage and said, “Your skin doesn’t look dirty enough to be a Mexican.”

When my cheeks grew pink and my tongue dried up, someone else in the classroom stood up. “You can’t say that,” he said, “That’s fucking racist. We could report you for that.”

Our teacher turned vicious. “You wanna fail this class? Go ahead. Report me. I was joking. It’s my word against yours. I hate kids like you. You think you’ve got all the power - you don’t. I do.”

Later that kid and I became close friends and we skipped class to do anything else and the two of us were lying on our backs staring up at the sky and as we talked about that moment, he sighed, “I hate white people.” His girlfriend is white and so is his mom. I reached out until my fingers were resting in the warmth of his palm.

He spoke up each time our teacher said something shitty. He failed the class. I stayed silent. I got the A but I wish that I didn’t.

Here is a fact: I think gender is a social construct and people that want to tell others what defines it just haven’t done their homework. I personally happen to have the luck of the draw and am the same gender as my sex, which basically just means society leaves me alone about this one particular thing.

Until I met Alex, who said he hated cis people. My throat closed up. I’m not good at confrontation. I avoided him because I didn’t want to bother him.

One day I was going on a walk and I found him behind our school, bleeding out of the side of his mouth. The only thing I really know is how to patch people up. He winced when the antibacterial cream went across his new wounds. “I hate cis people,” he said weakly.

I looked at him and pushed his hair back from his head. “I understand why you do.”

Here is a fact: anger is a secondary emotion. Anger is how people stop themselves from hurting. Anger is how people stop themselves by empathizing.

It is easy for the drunken man to be mad at my friend. If he says “Hey, fuck you, lady,” he doesn’t have to worry about what’s so wrong about men.

It’s easy for my teacher to fail the kids who speak up. If we’re just smart-ass students, it’s not his fault we fuck up.

It’s easy for me to hate Alex for labeling me as dangerous when I’ve never hurt someone a day in my life. But I’m safe in my skin and his life is at risk just by going to the bathroom. I understand why he says things like that. I finally do.

There’s a difference between the spread of hatred and the frustration of people who are hurting. The thing is, when you are broken, there will always be someone who says “I’m worse, stop talking.” There will always be people who are mad you’re trying to steal the attention. There will always be people who get mad at the same time as you do - they hate being challenged. It changes the rules.

I say I hate all Mondays but my sister was born on one and she’s the greatest joy I have ever known. I say I hate brown but it’s really just the word and how it turns your mouth down - the colour is my hair and my eyes and my favorite sweater. I say I hate pineapple but I still try it again every Easter, just to see if it stings less this year. It’s okay to be sad when you hear someone generalize a group you’re in. But instead of assuming they’re evil and filled with hatred, maybe ask them why they think that way - who knows, you might just end up with a new and kind friend.

"

By telling the oppressed that their anger is unjustified, you allow the oppression to continue. I know it’s hard to stay calm. I know it’s scary. But you’re coming from the safe place and they aren’t. Just please … Try to be more understanding. /// r.i.d (via inkskinned)

(via dreamofelectricsheep)

January 24, 2014
"

I’m meeting boys who like Charles Bukowski and they all want to do brutal things to my body. They tell me they buy a bottle of whiskey whenever they get one of his books and don’t stop reading till they’ve gone through a pack of cigarettes. They blow smoke in my face and say, “He was the outcast king of L.A. Did you know that, huh?” “Yeah, yeah, I know.” I say,“He’s great.”

A new boy gives me a worn copy of On the Road and thinks he’s being original. “We should explore the road together. Would you like that, baby?” I take a sip of my water and look away. Yes, I’d like that, I think. But he’s drunk and imagining himself sixty years earlier, in the back of a bar, sweating to the sound of live bop. Still, I prefer him to the hungry boy that devoured my shirt and said, “You have a tattoo? What’s it say?” ‘mad to live?’ What, are you angry about living? Aw, I’m just kidding, come here, let me take off that bra.”

The next boy I kiss doesn’t read. I ask him to come to a bookstore with me and he stays outside, sighing. He has no interest in words. He has no interest in me. I am thankful for him. For a few weeks, I am able to shed my habit of thinking obsessively and become a duller, rougher version of myself. I dump him when my fingers start turning imaginary pages in my sleep.

I go on a date with a boy who knows I like to write. He calls himself a fan of mine and swears he’s read every word I’ve put down. “You’ve got this voice that’s very modern, but also so classic.” I choke on my water as he says, “I read you to fall asleep.” At night, I listen to him pant metaphors and compare my mouth to the sea. One day, he stumbles across my journal and finds nothing about himself in it. “You don’t really love me, do you?” I shake my head. There is no use pretending anymore. He has read my poems about the boys I want to drown in me. His goodbye leaves my hands covers in ink. He wanted me so badly to be the sea, when all I am is a girl who writes poetry.

I try my best to become poetry. I take a bath and stain the water with black ink. I cut my hair in a motel sink. I cry for people I have never met. I start smoking cigarettes. I use words like “presumptuously” and talk about “post-modernist new wave.” I walk the streets at 4 a.m. and smile at people coming home from a rave. I wear sunglasses indoors. I carry a 500 page volume of poems wherever I go. I drink coffee instead of water. I talk about the “advantages of using film and listening to records.” But no matter how hard I try, I am not the sea. I am a sunken ship that has drowned in everyone who touched me.

"

I Am Not The Sea | Lora Mathis  (via capfly)

(Source: lora-mathis, via queeraspie-deactivated20140222)

December 1, 2013
hauntee:

"God Says Yes To Me" -Kaylin Haught

hauntee:

"God Says Yes To Me"
-Kaylin Haught

(Source: immorallity, via turneditoff)

October 30, 2013

hairinweirdplaces:

is anyone else confused about the science behind this whole guacamole-doesn’t-turn-brown-if-you-leave-the-avocado-pits-inside thing? did i trick the avocado into thinking it wasnt mashed up and about to be consumed? is it… STILL ALIVE?? AM I EATING MY AVOCADO ALIVE??

October 29, 2013

"What if Walter White told stupid chemistry jokes instead of cooking meth?"

(Source: romoon, via sleepyclothes)

October 11, 2013

Anonymous asked: Are you in a open relationship or some other kind of modern social oddity?

I am in a post-modern relationship.

October 7, 2013

continuing to exist out there

8:40pm  |   URL: http://tmblr.co/Zd82Dyx4G8j7
  
Filed under: gratuitous 
September 3, 2013

got a new job as a part-time naturalist at white clay creek state park.

I AM IN CHARGE OF THE NATURE NUGGETS PROGRAM.

I AM IN CHARGE OF DESIGNING LESSON PLANS ABOUT NATURE AND THEN TEACHING THEM TO PERFECT LITTLE 2-4 YEAR OLD BABIES.

ME.

September 3, 2013
22 saved drafts unsent from my telephone:

CORN IN

HEY I’m kind of mad at you/me/us and I want to yell at us together a little bit when you come back. Don’t let me chicken out!

Like breaking the two of you as a perfect unit. I feel like

Wait up for no man, EXCEPT my cat on the nights when he climbs out of the window while I’m at work.

I just wanna cry about all the people I can’t love while you hold my head and say “I know baby”

Feel bad for burdening you with

I’

Yeah girl.

But I felt reallyreallyreally super GREAT about you though! Not even in a weird way

Hey

AHHHHHAHAHAHAHAHAHA

Getting high with you is cool because we talk less but are less electric

Getting high with you is mostly better even though we talk less because I feel less electric

You seem unhappy in general, really. I wonder how and

Getting high with you is cool because we talk less but are less electric

AND you went in for kisses again!!! Bad!

YES

Okay.

Omg omg omg I’m gonna swim inside of YOU tomorrow morning. Last night we

H

First

Isn’t that weird??

September 3, 2013

Have spent many years trying to figure out where all my angry feminist, sad feminist, happy feminist, not-feminist-still-feminist feelings have come from. My mother was not a warrior in that sense. My past is not darkened by gendered trauma. My relationships with men are healthy and fulfilling. Have discovered more and more stories that I did not know were screaming through me, left there in the way that ancestors leave songs to sing inside of you that you may not yet recognize. My aunt was abused by a preacher when she was a teenager and did not tell anybody until her own daughter was six years old. My mother slept on a lawn chair in her mother’s house because that’s all she could be given. She told me a story, once, about a man who drove next to her in a car and showed her pictures of naked men. Her stepfather. She also told me to never believe it when boys tell you it hurts when you don’t fuck them.

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