white/creme/beige posts

"She never looked nice. She looked like art, and art wasn’t supposed to look nice; it was supposed to make you feel something."
— Eleanor & Park, Rainbow Rowell (via dumbwhitegirl)


the first step towards confidence is not being afraid to be ugly

once you get over the fear of being unattractive and stop equating beauty with other good things in life (friends, love, happiness) it’s a lot easier to love yourself unconditionally

your job is not to sit around and be pretty and easy on everyone else’s eyes

your job is to do whatever the fuck you want and look however the fuck you want while doing it


He said,
‘You can’t be a poet, you’re too tender.
You’d never be able to stand the blows
it takes to tell another’s story.’
He paused.
‘And besides that,
you don’t have a poet’s touch.
You burn me. You scratch me.
You leave gaping holes in me whenever you look at me.
You’re not soft enough to be a poet.
The noise in your head has to be turned down first.’

I yawned. Looked out the window.
Considered tenderly pushing him out of it.
‘So, what can a mess like me be?’

'Well,' he began steadily, like this was
the introduction to some grand speech
he had practiced in the mirror,
‘Lucky for you I love you too much to let you go,
so even with your flaws,
you can be mine.’

I waited for the punchline. It didn’t come.
He had his hands outstretched towards me,
waiting for me to take them and laugh with him
about my flaws all the way back to his place.

This was it. My fairytale.
Prince charming was a wolf in a secondhand suit,
licking his fangs at me in a rundown diner.
And here I realized, as I excused myself to
‘powder my nose’, and then slipped out the
side door, my worn slippers hitting the concrete
faster than ever before, that perhaps I am not a
damsel in distress, looking to be saved.
Maybe I am the villain. The obstacle.
Maybe every prince has been taught to save me from myself.
Or maybe, just maybe,
I am not a character that has been written before.
Maybe no woman has. We are too multi-faceted, too real.
We have circling wants that cannot be shoved into two hours
and have a happy ending slapped on them.
Maybe the stories are not telling enough.

Maybe it’s up to me.


I Woke Up With This Poem In My Head | Lora Mathis  (via lora-mathis)

happy international women’s day! make sure to include ALL women and not make your definition of womanhood exclusionary. anyone who identifies as female, regardless of race, biological sex, or sexuality is a woman that deserves to be celebrated. 

"you are lonely until you’re home:
bruised-mango flesh underneath your eyes,
hollowed sockets of lost time pooling in crescent moons;
i feather kiss up your arms along trails of tears,
we are time bomb bees ticking like grandfathers unwinding
with quiet news of our funerals, casket not included;
when our clocks are back to where we began:
bring me desolate lilies like an apology,
pass me wide-ruled notes crossed out like a goodbye;
when your aortas calcify once more,
explain to me its ultimate inevitability,
and hope i understand what we had was not a home."
— House [p.t]
"I searched for myself
except underneath
my own skin."
— Y.Z, A ten word story (via rustyvoices)
"Do you know
how many people
I kill in my poems?"
— Sierra DeMulder (via amyreblogs)
"This poem yells I have met so many people
I will never love. Slosh slosh slosh. Can you
taste the alcohol in this poem? It’s darker
than well water, sweeter than the sprinkler
planted between your thighs. This poem
whispers Life needs to wash behind its neck.
There’s too much grime caked into the bathtub,
and really, who has the time to plan such a big
wedding? Can a poem talk underwater?
Standing on my roof, this poem yells These words
are red because you have touched me holy.
There is death in the air, and I haven’t even
brought up the birds that have stopped
coming around. Standing on my roof,
this poem looks at the pool below. There are statues
of lions with good posture. Everything faces
north, quietly shivers against the breeze. Standing
on my roof, this poem yells Cannonball.
Splash splash splash."
Gregory Sherl, “Poem as Happy Hour” (via invinculis)



After the first time
you never again mistake
your body for being your own.

After the curled fists
and the werewolf howls
and the slick pink tongues
slip-sliding over your
embarrassed breasts,
it is not the same.

You begin to stand like a
For Sale sign, at the bus stop,
in the parking lot, in the
supermarket self-check-out line,
always rickety and unsure,
forced to welcome people in.

You have a spine made of jelly,
made of play-dough, made of
wet plaster.

You are always under construction.

When the men come in their
hard hats, jackhammers in their belts,
nails held tight between their teeth,
they think they are here to fix you.

They think they are doing you 
a favour. You must admit 
your body has been caving in.

It has a leaky ceiling, creaking
hinges, it makes too much noise.

Your body is an abandoned house.
You have to tear it all down
in order to build it back up.

They are here to pull you apart.

After the first time, the sound of
breaking glass doesn’t make you flinch. 
The dust catches in your throat like hope.

The rubble of your body begins 
to look like a promise.

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