From B
Here you will find beauty and pain and love and death and humor and life and all other things within and inbetween.
your knees ache because they’re made from elephant tusks.
your cartilage was wrought from the kindest piece of vertebrae that human hands could hunt.
it sprung from a metal that looked like bone,
but felt more like a fracture, a tremble.
your meniscuses are made from the silent eye of an august storm,
your patellas are carved from the elbow of a cedar tree,
your tendons are braided grapefruit veins.
when your knees ache they ache like citrus, they ache like woodpeckers, and nimbus clouds.
your knees ache because they’re made from the same cloth as your heart,
they ache like muscles, and break,
soft like a sparrows’ bones.
“a love letter to your knees”, bronwyn fischer
(via czarinna)
casual reminder that for every person who doesn’t want to label their sexuality theres another person who prefers the tangibility of a word and both are ok
(via loveyourchaos)
Fun fact time: many of my old acquaintances still make joking comments whenever they see me wearing pink, because as a child (and honestly pretty much right up to high school) I would refuse to associate with any pink objects.
It wasn’t because I didn’t like pink, it was because since I appeared female I was supposed to/ it was immediately assumed that I did and therefore it pissed me the ever-loving fuck off. I was ashamed to like it, which is terrible because pink is an awesome color. But when you shove it down young girls throats it gets really old, really fast.
Give the child the fucking rainbow, and if they pick pink, it’s not because they are female and/or effeminate, it’s because they like the color pink.
THIS.
Gosh this
(Source: feminishblog, via unbefreakinlivable)
(via littlemiss)
