grumpysalmon:

Nah, that is idiocy. Weakness. Poison the chocolate. Defeat her.

grumpysalmon:

Nah, that is idiocy. Weakness. Poison the chocolate. Defeat her.

(via t-t-t-today-junior)


(via xclusiiv)


hiscinnamongirl:

Varanasi

hiscinnamongirl:

Varanasi


God bless every mother who has held back tears to cradle us, kiss us, and tell us stories until we fell asleep. Every mother who had only seconds to wipe away her tears and paint a smile the moment you naively begged her to color with you. Every mother who performs miracles by respiring on the spot, reanimating her every limb, so to give her children a happiness even she is foreign to. 

(via press-pause-dans-la-vie)


silent-dialogue:

what the fuck this kid has better style than 99% of the male population

(via syruhhxo)


lipstick-bullet:

So pretty!

lipstick-bullet:

So pretty!

(via syruhhxo)


it’s nine pm and we’re parked in the dark,
handsy with each other and tipsy over
three-fourths of a bottle of local vodka.
you take off my shirt and i hate myself
for asking you this, but i say it anyway,
‘am i fat?’ and i can hear the words behind it:
my father always thought i was,
they always called me that in school,
whenever i lose weight they say they never knew
i could look so lovely, i’m not trying to put you
on the spot but if you would just tell me
i would know, and i’m sorry to do this to you,
but here’s the thing:

once, alone in my room, i took off my clothes
and failed to find myself beautiful.
i was sixteen and awkward, unable to fit
inside my skin, spilling out through
the seams, trying too hard
to keep myself in one place.
my father used to say i’d be pretty
if i weren’t getting so fat, and he added that
it was a shame, because no boy likes a fat girl.
he laughed when he said it, and i wondered
if he’d still find it funny if i told him
about the number of boys who have pulled
my clothes off and kissed my skin
like it was something they missed.
i wonder if he’d find it funny if i said
i was pretty sure girls still liked fat girls.

i wonder if all you will be is someone
who thinks i’d be pretty if i weren’t me,
but you look at me like this might be a joke
before you say ‘you’re curvy, it’s hot’ and
keep kissing me like we never stopped.
thank you for not prefixing your sentence
with a no. thank you for not suffixing it with
a statement about how you don’t like
skinny girls anyway.

one day, my father will say this to me again
and i hope i can tell him that it’s possible
to be pretty and fat at the same time,
just like it’s possible for him to be
both the wind in my sails and
the anchor in my sea at the same time.
i hope i can tell him that i won’t
let him pull me down.
i am trying to learn to not be ashamed of the
places where i am not perfect, of the
stretch marks on my thighs and the
weakness in the backs of my knees,
all these things i used to think
would make me incomplete.

pretty when i’m fat, pretty when i’m not | rabia kazmi (via nightcapades)

the last time i hung up on you it was february,
a year ago. i was tired and you were angry, and
now i guess i’m calling to ask how you’ve been since.
scratch that, that’s a lie, i’m calling to tell you
i think i might be sorry that it ended like it did,
except that doesn’t really sound like an apology.
okay, here’s the thing, i’m actually calling because
i think i’m falling for a girl i don’t even know
and you used to be good at my love life,
and i hoped you could tell me if this is even me
because you used to seem to know me too.

if you don’t already know, i’m sort of drunk,
and i’ve been writing down all the things i think
that i feel sorry for, and i wanted to tell you
until i realized i don’t have your number anymore.
okay, no, actually, i still know it by heart
but i wanted to ask you how long
it took you to delete mine from your phone,
and for how long you remembered it after that.
i didn’t think you would. you were always good
at forgetting the things you didn’t want to see.

i’m not calling because i miss you.
i’m not calling because i want you back,
and i know i don’t love you anymore.
i chose to walk away, but that doesn’t mean
it was ever easy. it doesn’t mean it was the way
i wanted it to be. i wish that it did.
i wish that it had been simple,
ordinary like water flowing from a tap,
a silver balloon floating into a blue sky.

i just want to tell you i cared.
i just want to tell you i had to stop loving you
because the voice in my head started sounding
like you. i had to stop loving you because it wasn’t
good, and we didn’t work anymore, and i was too tired
to fix anyone but myself.

i want to tell you i’m sorry that you couldn’t see that.
i’m sorry that i had to be the one to show you.
add this to the list of things for which i should apologize.
i really shouldn’t have called you.

regret-shaped voicemailrabia kazmi (via nightcapades)

this is not about you.
this is the way in which your mother loved your father.
this is the way he held her hand inside his own.
this is the first time they met, strangers with a contract
to call them husband and wife.
this is how your mother felt, scared and lonely and
resigned, hopeful in the back of her mind.
this is the way she smiled across her whole face
when she learnt about you, nineteen, a child herself.
this is the way she sat with her weight on her left
throughout her pregnancy because you were lodged
in the spaces between her right side.
this is the way you were born, kicking and screaming,
blue in the face with disorientation.
this is the way she held you like you were still inside her.
this is your father, three days late to your birth.
this is your parents, with their arms around you,
a smile on both faces.
this is the way your father thought of your name
before he even thought of you.
this is the picture you took of them with their arms around
each other and the same smiles on their faces.
this is the way you felt when you realized that
your parents were in love, like it meant something more
than a meeting of minds, an arrangement of sorts.
but look, this is the way your father thinks less
of your mother for being a mother.
this is the way he couldn’t take the things that she loved
seriously. this is the way your father taught you
to ride a bike, although your mother still doesn’t know how.
this is the day you realized that your father did not know
how to love and your mother could not teach him.
this is when you wondered if she knew.
this is the way your father believes money makes
a house a home, and that the one paying that money
is the one who it belongs to.
this is the way your mother had twenty-three years
of her life thrown into her face, almost as hurtful
as acid. this is the way she tried not to care.
this is why she stayed, the look on your face
and your sister’s hands around your mother’s waist.
this is the way your lives fell apart, like pots made of clay
collapsing into each other, a sound like breaking a heart.
this is the way you learnt to be brave, to rely on yourself
like signals of distress, like the warning signs of a war.
these are the ways in which it wasn’t your fault,
and you couldn’t have known better.
this is the way in which you forgive the parts of you
which need to be forgiven. this is the way you made
mistakes which weren’t the same ones as your parents.
this is about how you learnt to be yourself.
you are not your family: lessons from a failing marriage | rabia kazmi (via nightcapades)

“I said to the sun, “Tell me about the big bang.” The sun said, “It hurts to become.”
Andrea Gibson (via ale-thea)

(via nightcapades)


i will not teach my daughter
to be afraid of the dark.

i will not teach her how to be
ashamed of her anatomy,
to feel guilty for herself.
i will not teach her
to feel responsible for her beauty,
or for other people’s anger,
of the way she grows into herself.
i will not teach her how
to be seen, and not heard.
i will not teach her to let things go.
i will not teach her to be convenient,
to be less than she can be.
i will not teach her to be somebody else
for the sake of appearances,
or for the sake of any man.
i will not teach her
to be scared of strangers
to wear something less revealing,
to give love or sex or time out of obligation.

i will teach my daughter how
to be kind, and how
to start with herself.
i will teach her to be
gentle with the woman in the mirror,
to remember that she used
to be somebody’s little girl.
i want her to remember
how to feel like she is loved.
i want her to be free to roam in the streets
at three am and not be afraid of being out so late.
i want my daughter to be free.
i want her to fall in love with people
who will love her like houses on fire.
i want her to live like it
will never be enough.
i will teach her to be difficult with herself,
and honest with the people whom she loves.
i will teach her how to be seen.
i will teach her how to be heard.

i will teach my daughter
the names of each star,
each light in the sky, and show her
how you can only see them at night.
i will not teach her to be afraid.

for my daughter | rabia kazmi (via nightcapades)

for the first time that week, we were alone. you were smoking your sixth cigarette and not looking at me. i sat cross-legged and barefoot with my back against the walls of your house. earlier in the evening, you told me i couldn’t pull off wearing this shade of green. when i was sixteen i had nightmares about falling in front of a moving train. i used to wake up hearing sirens beating against my eardrums, lights flashing across my corneas. when you tell me i look pretty it doesn’t fit well with me, uncomfortable and tight, a lie pretending to be the truth. i never believe anyone who says so. i don’t tell you these things about me. when i looked up there were bats circling around the roof of your house. was that a bad omen? your arms looked like they would feel nice to be held in. things i haven’t wanted to tell you today: your last girlfriend was beautiful like the ending of a poem. i came out to my cousin in the backseat of his car, and i cried because i was scared he wouldn’t understand. when you finish your cigarette i will light another one, and another one after that. it wasn’t so long ago that you wanted me the same way. i have a thing for the veins on your arms. the nurses can never find them in mine, so they stick needles into the backs of my hands, taking blood and leaving bruises purple as sunsets for weeks. fact: i quit smoking three months ago but something about you makes my hands shake and holding a cigarette makes them seem steady. remember that song you made me listen to three years before we ever heard it anywhere else. remember the night with the cestrums. remember the way my skin smelled like roses, your mouth crimson stained. i think i cried when i went home that night. i missed you like a seed that tried to become a tree, a bullet stuck inside a body, wax dripping hot from a candlestick. you kissed me and i felt like you might mean it. you kissed me and i wanted you to do it again.
not really a poem anyway | rabia kazmi (via nightcapades)

my father scowls at me across the dinner table,
he tells me he’s tired of listening to me.
i close my mouth. small thoughts. hurt sounds.
he used to teach me how to talk,
pushing my thoughts into place. jigsaw puzzles.
hardcover books. organized shelves.
words over words over words.

when i come back to my room, i cry.
i wonder if that makes me weak.
i wonder if it makes me human.

maybe they are the same.

he and i have the same hands. the same skin.
we are reminders of each other,
post-its on foreheads, scrawled messages.
if you listen closely, even silence sounds like
the ocean. seashells. pebbles. small change.
hairpins and needles. things you can lose in your pockets.
i am folding like roses made of tissue. chairs on patios.
origami paper. cardboard boxes. a bad hand.

i blink back tears like water, eyelashes falling.
if you say something enough times,
it won’t make sense anymore. bed sores. cereal.
my last name. i’m starting to hate the sound of my voice.

in the right light, even families can look like strangers.

roots | rabia kazmi (via nightcapades)

When you grow up as a girl, the world tells you the things that you are supposed to be: emotional, loving, beautiful, wanted. And then when you are those things, the world tells you they are inferior: illogical, weak, vain, empty.
Stevie Nicks (via bmurguia)

(via nightcapades)


i’ve been trying to write something meaningful
but all i can think about is that tuesday in march when
we were high and hungover, so close to falling asleep.
it was cold in your room and we had stayed out all night,
which was starting to seem like a bad decision.

i remember it was raining, and you held my hands
while we pressed our legs together under the blankets.
it felt like we were the same, curving together
like bowls stacked on top of each other.
you said my name like you were testing it, trying it out
to see how it sounded when it came from your mouth.
we fell asleep with our skins against each other,
so close we could only call it touch.

when i woke up the sound of your breathing
made me feel safe, and i pretended to be sleeping
so i could feel you against me for a few more minutes.
later, you told me you were pretending too, and
it made me feel less alone that you were like me.
the next day i went home and laid on my bed in the dark
and my skin remembered your hands, your mouth
touching the back of my neck. i wanted more,
even though i didn’t know what it was that i wanted.

i’ve been trying to make it so i don’t think about you
anymore these days, but you’ve made yourself at home
between each line i write, and i don’t know if i’ll ever
again be able to start a poem which doesn’t end with you.