A Clever Assemblage of Clichés
It is just a body. The more you can be neutral about a body, the better. Bodies change, and many times they change from things out of your control. Bodies do not, and never will, have anything to do with your value.
Bevin Branlandingham  (via lostgal49)
visual-poetry:

»i would prefer not to too (disclaimer)« by etienne chambaud

visual-poetry:

»i would prefer not to too (disclaimer)« by etienne chambaud

highqualityfashion:

Balenciaga SS 06

highqualityfashion:

Balenciaga SS 06

You were the snow

I spent all night shoveling. The front door remained stubbornly shielded. It opened inward for release. But I was outside. The mama-san-dump gave way to a handle and a sugar scoop. I lifted the lid of the storage bin and scooped cornflour that crunched like it was packed beneath my feet and sugar that ran as hiss. We made it into ice cream. But I was still shoveling snow. The time wrapped in the wind of the blizzard. You were the snow. I was the cold air holding it. Or I was the shovel. Or I was shoveling. You were the snow.

I have a little box that is lined with pale pink satin. You can consider it a vulva. You can consider it a box. You can consider it.  I don’t know what happened to me. Apart from knowing some parts of what happened to me. The yoke of this depression is one I think I remove daily. But I turn around inside the middle hours of the day to find my face bent toward the ground in a position of submission. I have fallen in love reciprocally a small number of times and each time the little box opens and I am yoked and harnessed and lead around a ring.

The love is so sweet. It is drinking after being forbidden. But like any stimulant it runs a fissure through me. Multiple fissures. Gentle cracking. I’m the pet lamb at the A&P show my coat made white with dishwash. A parade of children. My face is a cold ebb of tide. And the circuit is so long. The ribbon around my neck chafes at my throat and I can feel my stomach rising to meet me. I will never be done with this. I carry the little box. The little box carries me. I am the broken plate you sweep into the rubbish after it flew off the kitchen bench.

tastefullyoffensive:

Ladypug [x]
weirdinwellington:

"Enough said…" (Courtesy kjwx.)

weirdinwellington:

"Enough said…" (Courtesy kjwx.)

1. Your skin may never be perfect, and that’s okay.

2. Life is too short not to have the underwear, the coffee, and the haircut you want.

3. Everyone (including your family, your coworkers, and your best friend) will talk about you behind your back, and you’ll talk about them too. It doesn’t mean you don’t love each other.

4. It’s okay to spend money on things that make you happy.

5. Sometimes without fault or reason, relationships deteriorate. It will happen when you’re six, it will happen when you’re sixty. That’s life.

Five things I am trying very hard to accept (via aumoe)
Stop making a big deal out of the little things, cause I got big deals and I got little things. I got everything I’m asking for, but you.
Beyoncé “Mine” feat. Drake (via ohmygodjamal)

aandyrea:

I want kisses and drunk texts and flowers and cuddles and lap dances and surprises and dates and bite marks and movies and notes and phone calls and back rubs and to be eaten out

honestlydear:

Seriously the hottest.

alexfourwilldaemongusnoahetienne:

Whenever I see pictures like this 

image

on the internet I always think “That is something Levi would do for Cath” and I have too much fun imagining Cath’s reaction to it.

visual-poetry:

»she loves control« by franck ancel
via franckancel

visual-poetry:

»she loves control« by franck ancel

via franckancel