Anonymous asked:
Jade
More you might like
- poor person: *gets an older model of some smartphone likely on a payment plan because in this day and age you need a phone for things like finding a job, scheduling appointments, and various other important things*
- asshole: Wow, you have a smartphone? You're not really poor. If you were REALLY poor, you'd sell all of your clothes, retreat to the forest, and eat cockroaches and leaves for the rest of your life.
i don’t know anyone named jade, but there was that girl on top model named jade … a few years ago she did a photo shoot where she was smeared in chocolate syrup and it was pretty unattractive!
(tell me a name and i’ll tell you about someone i know with that name!)
today in french we were doing an exercise on adjective forms and some of the sentences said things like “boys prefer pretty girls,” “girls prefer muscular boys,” etc. and my 40 yr old straight married professor makes an awkward face and says “ok, wow these just got weirdly heteronormative. how about you fill in the blank with whatever noun-adjective combination you want, as long as it follows correct grammar”
and the answers that we came up with were amazing.
- girls don’t prefer boys, girls prefer (fast) cars and money
- boys prefer beautiful barbecues
- girls prefer annoying cats
- boys prefer 75 large plastic dinosaurs
- and of course: pretty girls prefer pretty girls
so remember kids, heteronormativity doesn’t belong in the classroom but 75 large plastic dinosaurs do.
- Me: wow Tumblr can be pretty intense and problematic sometimes
- Me: *goes on Facebook for five minutes*
- Me: Tumblr is a sanctum of calm reasoned debate, thoughtful kindness and respectful good humour bless this website and everyone on it
I was a dead girl walking,
I am a dead girl walking,
Seven years later and I still have not left that room and I think there are pieces of me and of God still TRAPPED in the butterfly entomologist walls of that cavern pinned at the teenage thighs with the tips of traitorous thumbtacks thrusting inward a million transgressions;
TRAPPED between cortex and cerebellum and pituitary gland all things ocular still ache in the occipitals these synapses misfiring like jammed Savage Springfield 67 H shotguns choking on sailor semen and saline rosary beads of pharmacy bullets,
this is what it means to be trapped:
one never craves the sound of deadbolts unlocking in winter until the clinking of metal on iron on bone is effaced to shocks of white noise on deafened ears wrinkled in dissociation,
click, clack,
a prisoner of war trapped in a torturous room of silent horror like a melting wax museum everything still tastes of acrid residue and masochistic miles of unbuttoned skin
he is unzipped at the teeth; his arctic tundra fingers grazing my shriveled raisin cheek holding the skeleton key in trenches of trenchcoats pouring salt in the culvert of my wounds like a demigod incarnate forcibly fellating his antisocial altar in my youthful eyes looking upward towards heaven
twin ceiling fans affixed whirring like Cessna engines dizzying these nascent pupils purging purity and bingeing on anguish peaking steeples peeking over laced lashes cross my heart and hope to die,
he dispenses his Communist propaganda within me, my bones are his coffin;
his tainted tongue is a crossbow and after five years, I can still taste myself on the slinking slinky of his words dismantled and slithering down the vertebrae of baby toothed stairs sick in my Stockholm Syndrome holding the tip of his bayonet against my back,
“YOU. CAN’T. LEAVE.”
Every breath becomes the Green Mile in an olive colored bedroom perspiring on the empty hornets nests of braided sheets tangled in thousands of thread counts plucking asps from my hair shaking the sins of his ill intentions,
I was a dead girl walking,
I am a dead girl walking
bits of Emancipation Proclamations still cling to my sleeves like ducks drifting faceless in barrels of honey a myriad of mosquito bites erupting to Vesuvius heads unhealed lesions
I could find my face in those walls to this day I think there are remnants of my dusty holocaust dredged crematory ashes pressed against the warm lips of the ceiling fans like strawberry blonde marmalade haired Sunday school infants gripping the folds of maternalistic skirts,
click, clack
how locks taste opening from the inside out,
for six hours of captivity,
the stale ice blue tapwater of his words were
a freight train roaring in my cochlea.
I. CAN’T. LEAVE.
I am a dead girl walking,
I was a dead girl walking.
Seven years later and the walls still sigh
in pieces of me.
(via beautyinthebelljarr)