You gotta stop lying to us. We can tell you’re lying to us. Stop telling me, “Well… someone one day will think that crooked nose is just cute as a button,” I don’t want to hear that. I don’t want to hear the only thing that you can reassure me with is based on what I look like.
Stay beautiful. Stay beautiful. Staying beautiful is why I’ve got shaky hands and no metabolism. Staying beautiful is why I keep crying myself to sleep. Staying beautiful to me meant staying empty. I’m sick of it. I’m sick of people who’ve never seen me telling me, “Don’t worry, you’re somebody’s wet dream.” I don’t want to be. I don’t want to be beautiful. I don’t want to be pretty.
Stop telling girls they’ve just got to love themselves because “Everybody is beautiful.” You say the word “beautiful” and we think of magazines. Beauty exists in each person but it’s not because you’ll eventually stumble across someone who finds you attractive. Love your body because it’s flawed, love yourself for your heart. Beauty exists in you, I promise.
It’s because when you breathe in, sweetheart, you’re swallowing four million words you could have said but when you exhale, you choose the ones that are kindest. It’s because you’ve got sharp teeth and round hips and a good grasp on video games. You’re beautiful because they’ve knocked you to your knees and you keep wiping the blood out of the corners of your mouth and getting right back to your feet. You’re beautiful because they told you that you couldn’t succeed so you strapped yourself into the fastest car you could find and told them to fuck off, that you were running away to somewhere their venom couldn’t pierce through your fingertips - you’re beautiful because you’ve got stories stacked up your spinal column, not because some dude one day is going to say, “Huh, I’d fuck her.”
Stop preaching the same few words to us. Stop saying, “You’re beautiful,” because yes she is but she’s only going to hear, “I’m only saying this because I feel bad and I have nothing else to say.” Stop talking down to us. Instead start giving out compliments that mean something. Tell me I dress like I’m a queen. Tell her that you’re more than willing to punch somebody who asks, “But weren’t you born a boy,” tell her that you are willing to protect her. Tell her you’re happy she’s alive, not that you’re happy about how she looks.
Baby girl, look down to your hands, because these are the bones that will build and break nations - stay strong, stay wild, stay free, but don’t stay beautiful. Get ugly. Get hair in your mouth and sand in your eyes. Bite the people who hurt you, draw blood. Have sex in public restrooms, laugh about it, keep notches in your belt. Kiss the girl in your class with blue eyes you can’t stop staring at, get her lip gloss all over your collarbones. Skin your palms. Moan loudly. Stop getting quiet when obnoxious people interrupt you, talk over them, talk while staring them down, show them you don’t give a shit whether or not they like what you’re saying, you’re going to finish it. If somebody calls you a bitch, wink. Be ugly. Stop tearing your sandwiches apart under the table so you can eat like a fairy. Stop trying to be dainty. Cut your hair. Pierce everything you want, tattoo the rest, roll your eyes at your parents. Don’t hide your hurt, wear it, stop thinking you’re going to inconvenience everybody. Take back this world you gave up. Make it yours. Don’t go down without screaming.
You don’t need to be beautiful. You are not somebody’s art piece. Baby girl, look down to your hands.
What’s important is that you can do anything. You have so much potential and that’s what makes you important. You are so much more than your cheekbones or the width of your thighs.
What’s beautiful is that you can make anything happen. Stop being beautiful. Get ugly.
Go be alive.
Be alive, be glorious, be good at sex. Be so much more than just plain “beautiful.” /// r.i.d
| inkskinned (via inkskinned
It’s weird to think about how your birth is a fixed point in time but your death is constantly moving based on the decisions you make. The length of your life is always fluctuating.
The fact is, a 14-year-old girl may be capable of agreeing to sex with a 49-year-old man, but she doesn’t have the emotional and mental maturity to consent. I was 25 before I realized that every man I’d slept with as a teenager was a pedophile. It seemed to me that since I’d courted the attention, that I was fully culpable. What teenager believes she is not mentally or emotionally capable of full consent? I thought I was an adult, although when I look at the picture of myself from the time period above, I see a child.
I thought I was the exception for these men, the girl so precocious and advanced that it superseded social norms. I thought that I was “older than my chronological age.”
It never occurred to me as a young sexually active teen that the adult men I had relationships with may have been manipulating me, that they had designs and motives I couldn’t see from my limited child’s perspective.
Emily, XOJANE, "The Myth of the Teenage Temptress, or Why a Young Girl Can Not Consent to Sex with an Adult Man"
Everyone should read this article if they haven’t already. The anecdotes are upsetting and carry major TW (pedophilia, graphic depictions of sex), but the message is just so on point.
He is taking a course on Marxist ideology.
He says, “The only real solution is to smash the system and start again.”
His thumb is caressing the most bourgeois copy of the communist manifesto that I have ever seen,
He bought it at Barnes and Noble for twenty-nine U.S. American dollars and ninety-nine cents,
Its hard cover shows a dark man with a scarved face
Waving a gigantic red flag against a fictional smoky background.
The matte finish is fucking gorgeous.
He wants to be congratulated for paying Harvard sixty thousand dollars
To teach him that the system is unfair.
He pulls his iPhone from his imported Marino wool jacket, and leaves.
What people can’t possibly tell from the footage on TV
Is that the water cannon feels like getting whipped with a burning switch.
Where I come from, they fill it with sewer water and hope that they get you in the face with your mouth open
So that the hepatitis will keep you in bed for the next protest.
What you can’t tell from Harvard square,
Is that when the tear gas bursts from nowhere to everywhere all at once,
It scrapes your insides like barbed wire, sawing at your lungs.
Tear gas is such a benign term for it,
If you have never breathed it in you would think it was a nostalgic experience.
What you can’t learn at Barnes and Noble,
Is that when they rush you, survival is to run,
I am never as fast as when the police are chasing me.
I know what happens to women in the holding cells down there and yet…
We still do it.
I inherited my communist manifesto,
It has no cover—
Because my mother ripped it off when she hid it in the dust jacket of “Don Quixote”
The day before the soldiers destroyed her apartment,
Looking for subversive propaganda.
She burned the cover, could not bring herself to burn the pages,
Hoped to God the soldiers couldn’t read,
They never found it.
So she was not killed for it, but her body bore the scars of the torture chamber,
For wanting her children to have a better life than she did,
Don’t talk to me about revolution.
I know what the price of smashing the system really is, my people already tried that.
The price of uprise is paid in blood,
And not Harvard blood.
The blood that ran through the streets of Santiago,
The blood thrown alive from Argentine helicopters into the Atlantic.
It is easy to say “revolution” from the comfort of a New England library.
It is easy to offer flesh to the cause,
When it is not yours to give.
Catalina Ferro, “Manifesto” (via dialecticsof)
I feel like people do need to remember that there is a very real, very painful, very human element to the word “revolution”.
#18 Roslyn Julia
#18 of 200 images that have made the IYL Showcase shortlist. We”ll be posting 2 images/day in the run up to the London Showcase (October 23rd), when the final 20 images will be announced and presented as chosen by the showcase jury..
Woman live tweets IBM execs discussing why they don’t hire women, tries not to throw up
Toronto-based editor Lyndsay Kirkham has started a firestorm this week after overhearing what was apparently an incredibly sexist conversation between IBM executives at lunch — and live-tweeting it.
Unaware that they were transmitting sexist nonsense to cyberspace, the IBM executives openly discussed “why they don’t hire women.” If you take Kirkham’s account at its word, it actually gets way worse.
But wait, there’s more | Follow micdotcom
that’s how you make armor for women, no bullshit boob cups.
Boob cups must be the most uncomfortable things on earth… What the hell are you supposed to do when one of your boobs slips out? Let’s say you inhale or move your chest somehow so your breasts get free from the cup and end up clipped on the edge?? You can’t even pull them like you can when your bra gets all screwed up! Like who wants to wear that while they’re fighting monsters and shit?
I hit reblog so hard I may have sprained my finger
boob cups could also kill you. If you fall on your chest, all your weight will be on the middle of the boob cups and your sternum could be crushed. bye bye heart.
and the fact that this is the Mulan from “Once Upon a Time” makes it even better
Yeah to that person up there I was like ” air five your the only person that actually said that!”
I like Mulan! She’s amazing!