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Seventeen.

with an affinity towards the moon

& cotton candy the color of summer.

wearewavesyouknow:

drewwilsonphoto:

in order to celebrate the very fact that you are alive. the very fact that your bones are holding your delicate frame together. the fact that the man at the corner store remembers your name. and you’ve tried so hard to forget so many names. every day is beautiful. you learn something each and every day. sometimes it doesn’t mean anything but you don’t let that stop you from learning. in celebration we kill ourselves. so slowly. one cigarette with your coffee. caffeine and nicotine. one cigarette with that glass of wine. you wake up still in your shoes with the red wine still on your lips. you don’t believe in god but god damn you’re looking for someone in the bottom of those bottles. always make eye contact when you cheers. look so deep you can almost see their reason for that exact shot. someones birthday. someones new job. a face you’re trying to erase.   

accurate


definitelydope:

Drive
By Jakob Wagner


What To Do When Your Boyfriend’s Asshole Best Friend Says, “Hey, Never Trust Anything That Bleeds For Seven Days And Doesn’t Die,
Right?”
OR The Only Poem I’ll Ever Write About Periods.

Don’t excuse him because he’s had
at least three lite beers
and is sweating through his black button down
that his mom or exgirlfriend
probably bought him.
Don’t excuse him because he’s been turned down
by the last six girls he went on dates with
after meeting them on tindr
with a picture that’s seven years old
Don’t excuse him because
he’s usually such a nice guy
because you don’t want to be a bitch
because you don’t want to cause a scene
because when you were seventeen
your sister told you
no one likes an angry feminist

Tell him,
Hey, Asshole:
Let me explain something to you.
Every goddamn motherfucking month since I was eleven,
a part of me
tore itself to shreds
ripped itself apart inside me
and then remade itself.

So yes, I bleed for seven days
and I don’t die
You know what else can do that?
Gods.
Immortal beings.
Things of legend.
Fuck, I can even
create life.

So I say, never trust anything that can’t
bleed for seven days and not die.
You know what that makes it?
Weak
Fallible
Mortal.
So let’s see, hon,
What you’re made of.
If you can bleed for seven days
and not die.

Rip out his jugular with your teeth.
And when he bleeds for seven seconds
and dies,
spit on his corpse and say,
I thought not.

— Katherine Tucker (via alchemy)