i.     ii.     iii.    iv.    v.    t.  —   vii.    viii.


Anonymous: do you have an Ello?

i’m not sure what that is! :o inform me

distrustingly:

brb gonna make out w the sky

sassiest running shirt like waaaaat

I’m bleeding, I’m not just making conversation.

Richard Siken, excerpt from “Wishbone” (via littlejaw)

(Source: larmoyante, via littlejaw)

Anonymous: Girl I know where you're copying your writings, pls stop before someone expose you.

Hmm. That’s interesting. Unfortunately everything I post is generally considered “published”. I don’t have time to pretend I feel what someone else is feeling when they write. There is nothing that’s peeved me more than finding others taking my writing, and it isn’t even about aesthetics or appeal or any of that bullshit. It’s that I went through that post. I went through those words and I felt pain over them, and I don’t think people realize the emotions they’re dragging along with them when they repost things and claim they’ve written it. I’d love to know what they “felt” when they “wrote” it, how misunderstood it is and how far away from the raw reality of it they are. I have no need to take someone else’s feelings. I have no room to take someone else’s feelings. I have enough.

I get that polyamory is a pretty popular thing, and having threesomes with someone you’re with can in some peoples eyes ‘spice things up’, but fuck I just had a discussion about it with a friend and I literally can’t wrap my mind around it. It just doesn’t work in my head. I could never see myself being content or ‘pleasured’ watching someone else fuck or make who I’m with feel good. I literally can’t. And the person I was talking to said that it made me “too possessive”? I can’t get over that. It feels insulting and it made a pit in my stomach but maybe I’m just lack of understanding, or maybe with my personality and the way I love I’m not meant to understand. I don’t fucking know.

Someone talk me through this. What are your opinions? 

elizabethgadd:

Self-portrait during sunset on the night I spent on top of the Golden Ears mountains in BC, Canada.

I know you as legs twisted within sheets. Fidgeting. Lips bitten raw. I know you as the middle of my bed, the taste of warm skin out of the shower. A pressure. A touch. Anything.