ryenross:

me: hey i’m kinda good at this writing thing
*reads other people’s writing*
me: i am a literary potato

I am not looking
for the kind of love,
that forces me to prove
my worth

Mandeq Ahmed (via wordsthat-speak)

Sometimes, when people call for her, Moira doesn’t answer. Their words are clear and strong, sometimes very close, but her eyes don’t flicker, her frame doesn’t budge. If they wonder, Does she hear us? Yes, she does.

But she has trained herself, ever since her six month living on Seventh Street, when May came and the skirts in her closet and walks to the bus stop, her neck unadorned by scarves. Then she learned that any stranger might walk his eyes up her legs, around her roundness, and through her. Any fool with a breath in his lungs might use it to call her sweetheart, baby, or honey and ask her for her number. Any man with brakes in his car might pulse them to slow, watch her, roll down his window, and call to her.

She imagined their calls as threads of yarn that’d whip and catch inside the window, fraying and falling away. But that was just how she imagined them. That didn’t make it so.

There were many ways she desired to react, when the man in the white pick up truck pulled up beside her in her car and yelled, Nice ass.

One included reaching her slender, bronze arm outside of her open window and releasing from her loose-knit fist a full long view of her lovely middle finger. Another included responding, Nice harassing, asshole. Fucking jerk. And, Go to hell.

But she didn’t speak like that.

So as it was, she didn’t answer. She rolled her eyes, and her window up, and mentally noted it’d be easier to take interstate. But she liked the sights on Fresco Avenue, named for the murals on the buildings all lined up shoulder to shoulder. And why shouldn’t she be able to admire them? Driving herself in her own car in her own city?

Maybe she’ll just scream one day. Maybe the sound will drift out of her mouth slow, spindling out like spider web catching in the wind. Maybe it will blanket itself across Seventh Street, stretch its fine thin lines of sound out across the whole of Fresco Ave. Then, when the question becomes, Do they hear her? There will be an answer — a proper answer. Her eyes and her frame and her body will own them. Grip them in their lust and refuse to release them. Then, they won’t want her answer. But will they hear her?

Yes.

christopherevan:

understand, that if you’re cold I’ll keep you warm,
and besides, there’s so much beauty in a storm

i think a lot of the time, really great, beautiful fiction begins at the truth and then twists away as elegantly as possible.

sometimes i want to try to explain inside jokes that happened to me to you guys but then i’m just like, no, don’t be that person on the internet

I’m a dirt person. I trust the dirt. I don’t trust diamonds and gold.

Eartha Kitt  (via konagrown)

(Source: hopefulinstinct)

chaiivee:

i do not want somebody
let me be clear
i do not want
some
body

i yearn for
in a cavernous way
a very
particular
mind

ache for
an especially
singular
spirit

not for the holding of hands
for the holding of hands’ sake

somebody
can be found anywhere
somebody
is a blur

i’m no somebody
i am this cry and this still-watered wait

i’m not just somebody

and the person for whom
i ache
is not either

Would you rather be ignored or constantly adored?
She paused to think.
Well they’re both ways to not really see someone, aren’t they, she said. Not see them at all, or see just the bits that make you melt.

trying a new thing with the hair

trying a new thing with the hair