danseurs

I remember another life, surreal

you were fall and I, winter

and through the long summer days, we sang to each other

waiting for the change of seasons

singing in voices filled with the power of wind and sky

and then, my love, it was you, autumn

raining your leaves and colors upon the earth, and how I joyed to watch you dance

and came the glorious days between your domain and mine

and I descended to earth to join you, and how we danced!

you and I whirling, snow falling through the leaves of trees

whirling through grave wooden arches of ancient churches

whirling entwined to the song of our elements

with wind and dancing snowflakes

erasing time and space together.

"

I don’t want to be a feminist anymore. Like a five-year-old, I want to close my eyes, stick my fingers in my ears, stomp my feet on the floor and scream “No! No, you cannot make me, I won’t, leave me alone!” I am, simply put, too tired. So very, very tired.

I am tired of fighting with my friends. I am tired of arguing that someone groping and slapping my butt isn’t “what I have to expect”, just because I’m at a bar, and the one attacking my butt has a drink in the other hand. I am tired of hearing “boys will be boys” and “when you’re dressed like that …” and “that’s just what guys do”. I am tired of trying to drown those sentiments in loud, repetitive no’s, screamed over and over again, till my throat is sore and my voice weak – just to hear them repeated, as soon as exhaustion threatens to silence me.

I am tired of being afraid. I am tired of seeing someone writing something offensive, sexist, racist, ageist, ableist, somewhere online. I am tired of seeing those writings getting likes and lol’s, and SO TRUE’s. I am tired of being consumed by confusion and anger, typing, typing, typing and typing a seemingly endless response, including research, links and statistics, and then hesitate clicking “submit”. I am tired of knowing that I hesitate because I am afraid of the flood of responses that will come. I am tired of knowing that I will be bombarded with lighten up’s, stop whining’s and get a sense of humor’s for so long, that I will start to wonder if I am indeed wound up too tight, a nagger and humorless. I am tired of the fact that I’m afraid of being called a cunt, even though I don’t find genitalia insulting or demeaning.

"

I don’t want to be a feminist anymore (via coffeeurlgirl)

(via skelechitophobia)

inspired by eric church

I know why they say the love of a good woman is worth everything

why it’s the greatest treasure

it makes you better

it makes you want to change your stars

because for yourself, you want to be a good man

but for her, you want to be a hero

because you take more pride in yourself, when she falls in love with who you are

because you want to be able to fix what gets broke

whether it’s her car or the old rocking chair or her aching muscles or her heart

and you want to be the one she runs to

because the devil can’t win when she loves you like Jesus does

and she looks in your eyes and tells you she loves you and you have never believed anything more than you believe that

because she is a treasure, beautiful in herself

and her heart cannot be measured

and this, this creature of beauty and wildness and this woman made of earth and sky and the smell of rain

this is the girl who loves you.

from the beginning

I remember you.

I was drawn by your pretty bare feet, drawn by your smile that brought happiness like a spring from inside me, without knowing why it did. Drawn by your eyes, always those eyes; ocean eyes that I could lose myself in, for hours. Drawn by your heart, your longing, beautiful, wild heart, drawn like a falling stone to the earth. And I loved you. So stupidly I loved you at first, with my journal entries denying my feelings, juxtaposed on the page with what even a child would know was a love poem, written to only you. 

I remember the deepest places of your heart, and how when you showed them to me, I felt unworthy of the honor, and promised myself to never let you down, promised you to never leave you, forever. And I loved you. I remember the sound of your voice, how listening to it entranced me, and how making you laugh felt like I had personally caused a rainbow, how I fell for you both all at once and every day.

I remember how you felt in my arms, how your hand fit in mine, and how deeply I melted at your shy smiles. I remember how your lips melted against mine, and how I never wanted to stop kissing them. I remember your laughter, I remember the sound of your song. I remember your eyes, gazing into mine so close, and how I never wanted to look away.

And I love you. 

And all of these things, my love, these memories of you are my greatest treasures, my prized possessions. They are kept in my heart, in a place occupied by you alone. They are by far my most precious, next only to this: The promise of the pursuit of your love; my love for you, wild and growing every day; and your heart, more precious than life itself to me. And oh, my love…how beautiful it is, to chase a lifetime of loving you.

rosalarian:

Angelina Jolie had a double mastectomy, in case you hadn’t heard. How dare she remove those ticking time bombs from her chest, amiright? Like, hasn’t she learned by now that her body is public domain and we all get to vote on what she does with it? Sheesh, how selfish can ya get.

(via wilwheaton)

take it please

I want you to be my love letter

I want your smile, your laughter to take the place of my words and show how loved you are

and fucking perfect is still my song for you

because the only love letter I need is the light in your eyes

and passion deep under my skin like a tattoo on my soul

and it goes like this: I know your secret, and I’m gonna keep it

I’m gonna come take you away

and she will be loved will never be so true

of you

I read of you, in the pages of haunted books

they remember you to me, your scent, your laughter

I read of you, in texts written with neither of us in mind, but both of our hearts captured between the pages

and your memory brought on by these words is an aching loveliness

the absence of your heartbeat next to mine like a bird robbed of flight

and I read of you, addicted

I read

themyskira:

Hannah Gadsby on rape culture (x)

(via wilwheaton)

only

The sun is rising, and their eyes see it together for the first time

The calls of the birds will later be called lonely (I will call them lonely, listening for your heartbeat a world away)

But for him and her there is only newness, no paradise lost yet, no milton’s mortal taste of forbidden trees

That moment when his hand first stole into hers, the warmth of his palm on her cool, new fingers

Did you imagine that moment too, when we took off our winter gloves, and your fingers slipped past my bulky knuckles

I imagine their romance

I imagine him winning her with a world his to command, to name, to give to her

Sharing in her wonder, and standing together in awe of the rise and set, of the rise and fall

I imagine this, when I remember the sharp cold near the lake, and the birds forming squadrons like heaven’s host

When I remember the cold clear wind that made your eyes water, but made mine see you so clearly, every moment, every step

I remember them

I remember them all

corethoughts: Portrait →

corethoughts:

This is what a writer looks like. Listen to me, don’t look away. Let me tell you what she looks like.

I’m in love with her, and I could watch her do anything for hours…but that isn’t why I watch her write. I’m watching her soul pour onto the page. I’m watching her write…