Women like me do not fall gracefully,
we stumble over our spines, trip over
our vowels, and collapse into your arms.
Our hearts are open books,
Russian novels containing fifty pages
on the way your voice drifts across
the telephone wires each night.
Our hearts are first drafts,
unedited verses about each and every
person we have ever loved: the stranger
on the subway, the girl who gave us a balloon,
the boy who stole our virginity
but not our heart.
Women like me will love you from a distance
of a thousand syllables while laying in your bed,
we will destroy you in the most beautiful way possible,
and when we leave you will finally understand
why storms are named after people.
“People don’t like love, they like that flittery flirty feeling. They don’t love love - love is sacrificial, love is ferocious, it’s not emotive. Our culture doesn’t love love, it loves the idea of love. It wants the emotion without paying anything for it. It’s ridiculous.”—Matt Chandler (via akachristiannaa)
Rape isn’t about uncontrollable sexual desire. You only have to listen in on a Call of Duty game to see that. When that kid crows, “I raped you!”, he’s not calling the other guy sexy; he’s saying he defeated him, dominated him, humiliated him. That’s what rape is about, and that should scare you.
“It’s impossible to say a thing exactly the way it was, because what you can say can never be exact, you always have to leave something out, there are too many parts, sides, crosscurrents, nuances; too many gestures, which could mean this or that, too many shapes which can never be fully described, too many flavours, in the air or on the tongue, half colours, too many.”—Margaret Atwood - The Handmaid’s Tale (via modernhepburn)