If I Am To Become Another Berry Picked Too Ripe So I Can Be Sold To The Masses I Will Use The Cut I

All Girls are Angels in Their Dreams.

writing: Everyone is watching and looking and judging. I'm just meat to be consumed by others, I'm for others. And I should be grateful, oh please eat me and spit out what you hate. Pretty please sink your teeth into my flesh, eat me. Don't worry about the pain, I should he grateful. I am. I am. Don't yell. Use my flesh to silence your anger, your pain. Please. Oh do I hate this dream.

i wanted to be my firsts first and now ive lost the purity in me to something dirty and it makes me feel sick. i have nothing to repent for yet i have a need to fall to my knees and beg for something.

There was nothing resolute you could do about sadness, you were finding. You simply had to embrace the forlorn notions, and live out across the day, finding concentration in the other things you loved. Whilst realising that that thing you once loved was never coming back.

Reblog if you ARE a woman in STEM, SUPPORT women in STEM, or ARE STILL BITTER about Rosalind Franklin not getting credit for discovering the structure of DNA and the Nobel prize going to Watson and Crick instead.

There was a simple joy in just staying up for a while longer. Consciousness could be exhausting. Often it was. But it could also be sublime. And so there was the option to go to sleep. But you thought you may as well just stay up. There was time to do things, learn things; and you didn’t need to be anywhere tomorrow. So, simply stay awake and keep your mind going for a little longer.

The anger was just boiling up. I didn't know what to do with the excess water. It was overflowing the styrofoam cup and I needed to put it somewhere. I needed to throw something. I had to punch someone so hard it hurt me more than it ever hurt them. I grabbed my scalding cup and poured. A whispering drizzle ran down the hill side drilling into the dirt digging at the rocks breaking the dam of soil to bring forth a rushing river. Hurt yourself. I pounded my fist into my thigh. Hurt yourself. I scratched at my arm nails on a chalkboard. Hurt yourself. I didn't stop when I started bleeding. Hurt yourself. My skin was stuck under my nails. Hurt yourself. I was drowning head down in the deep waters so hot it was icy cold to the touch. Hurt yourself. I liked it. That hurt the most.

If only I were pretty in the way girls should be pretty.

If I had long flowing hair and gorgeous glowing eyes.

If I sucked it in so much my stomach just stays like that

If I cut the gap into my thighs

Do you think that would work?

Remolding myself like a sculpture

scrapping away the unwanted and ugly

freeing the girl whos pretty in the right way

Being pretty because I am and not because Im not

hear me out

girl pretty

unconventional

body positivity

why can't I just be pretty?

in the way girls are supposed to be pretty

Pretty like the ocean lean and blue and bright

Pretty like the setting sky colorful and stretched and impermanent

pretty like a whoring pig in a wig

except I don't have the money for a nice wig

and Im not pretty enough to be a whore

If I were a runner I'd be a sprinter

And if I were a painter I'd never buy varnish

If I were your rich great aunt I'd bore you with stories of a drunken Italy

And if I were a mother I'd eat my children in one sitting

If I were your girlfriend I'd be the summer to your tom

And if I were a musician I'd have five singles you had to buy separately and burn onto one disk

If I were a writer I'd be a poet

And if I were a poet I'd never breath a word of this to you

I saw you looking

So why did you say you didn't care

why look at something you dont like

instead look at the trees blowing in the air

I caught you looking

and i caught the blush in ur cheeks

the soft smile on your lips

like the cutest little geek

I noticed you not looking

so i tried to forget

it wasnt all that hard

but then you had to look again

this time your eyes were lower

and i wouldnt have minded but

i saw you looking

then you said u didnt care

how do i tell her i made it?

all those nights dreaming of what waking up might feel like. all those mornings still stuck in a dream.

how do i tell her that every week day i wake up at six to greet the blue haze outside my window while i dance to the radio station and put on way too much highlighter?

all those hours longing for satisfaction. all those minutes longing for routine.

how do i tell her my days are full of a life which i live?

all those poems praying for my flame. all those prayers poeticizing the mundane.