GiltedWords

Gilt dripping, metaphor tripping,

sin and 'em gripping

Lately, feminists like Annie Lennox, bell hooks and Emma Watson have taken issue with Beyoncé’s sexual openness. While trying to discredit Beyoncé as a feminist, they seem to have forgotten one of the most important parts of Chimamanda’s speech in ***Flawless.

"What does a lady dress like, exactly? And who decided what a lady looks like? What bearing should one’s clothing have on one’s identification as a feminist? This is exactly the kind of misogynist policing we’ve fought tooth and claw against for decades, and to level this line of “reasoning” at Beyoncé is not only antifeminist, it is despicable." (x)

(Source: thequeenbey, via thoughtsofablackgirl)

Before you touched me,
I was a cage full of
wild things.

My mother used to say,

‘be wary of wolves,
they can smell
the beds of lambs
from miles away.’

so every night
I would sleep naked
and wake up smelling of the moon,
for my mother never knew,
that it is not the wolf
who sleeps with the lamb,
it is the lamb who must first learn
how to run with the wolves.

What I’m trying to say is,
I always wondered
what hell would feel like.
I just never imagined
that I would love it
so goddamn much.

— Pavana पवन (via maza-dohta)

(via alexandraelle)

I am more than: my relationship status. My job. My age. My sexual orientation. My degree or lack of. My last name. My appearance. My gender. My sex. My short comings.

I am: rusted thoughts. A bloody tongue. Every city I have breathed in. Every bedroom I have loved in. Piles of words. Twisted metaphors. My thoughts. My actions. My dreams.

And I am not looking to be loved. I am looking to be seen.

I Am Not | Lora Mathis (via lora-mathis)

this is very true but i still forget about this often

(via lora-mathis)

(via lora-mathis)

sheed-emilio:

…My eulogy
Will be a smear campaign
My funeral
Will be a trial
And I will be found
Guilty
Of this unshakeable
otherness…

-Rasheed Copeland.

(via alexandraelle)

The Perfect Mess

new-poets-society:

She waits
Waiting for the phone to ring
Waiting for an end in the arguing
It keeps her up all night
but she’s gotten used to the silence
In the darkness, she finds a balance
her mind races
Each passing day feels the same
Repetition is her only game
dragging herself out of bed
hanging…

The sun is bright
Mirroring an acute sadness
That will not disperse
Into the reflective puddles of last nights
Rain.