I wish people could just say how they feel like ‘Hey I really don’t like when you do that to me’ or ‘Hey I’m in love with you’ or ‘Hi I really miss you and I think about you all the time’ without sounding desperate. Why can’t everyone be painfully honest and just save people the trouble.

(Source: gorditaputa)

send me a fruit c:


Strawberry - I’m in love with you.

Cherry - I love you.

Watermelon - I think you’re cute.

Blueberry - You’re amazing.

Kiwi- You’re pretty

Rasberry - You’re hot.

Plum - I would fuck you.

Paopu Fruit - I would date you.

Grapes - I could stay on your blog for hours.

Lemon - You are my tumblr crush.

Orange - I want to get to know you.

Tangerine - We have a lot in common.

Lemon - I wish you would notice me.

Lime - I don’t talk to you but I really love your blog.

I can be someone’s and still be my own.
Shel Silverstein (via onkh-m-maat)

This is for the girls who lie awake at night
pulling at their covers to keep them warm,
Drenched in sins of deprecation,
Tossing and turning on their twin-sized beds
because there is not enough room to fit expectations,
let alone their own.

This is for the girls who stare at themselves in front of their mirrors,
Pinching at the extra layers of skin that hang around their tummies,
“Rolls of fat” as they call it, I prefer the term “beauty.”

This is for the girls who have shoulders and backs
plastered in scars from the bras that were one cup too small,
Overly adjusted and tightened straps to push their breasts up so that boys may find them attractive enough to look underneath the surface,
because who could ever love a monster.

This is for the girls who fall prey to the fallacies of magazine stands,
Captivated by the bold letters bleeding off the covers:
“365 ways to style your hair!”
“How to get the perfect butt!”
“Turn the lights off to look good naked!”
“How to make him love you.”

Pull apart the flesh and look beneath your skin,
You are not defined by the number of eyes
that manifest lust towards you,
You are not the number of hands that plead to saunter
their way towards your hips,
You are not the number of inches that space your thighs,
Or the visibility of the muscles that line up on your stomach.

You do not need to look good naked,
Don’t turn off the lights,
Your butt looks fine,
Stop falling victim to the media,
to the photoshopped ads of puppets who look nothing like you,
Because you are real.
And if you want a man to love you
he must learn to accept you with your extra scars, flaws, and fat,
Because that sack of bones known as a “model” on a Cosmopolitan cover will not keep him warm at night.

It is inscribed in the atoms that make you a person,
You are a three-dimensional beautiful masterpiece,
You are not a computerized pixelated image,
Reshaped and resized, retouched and revised,
Stop letting society dehumanize a woman,
You are a woman.

Allow the fury to slither through your limbs until you shake
with anger and purpose,
Acknowledge the value of your worth for you are more than just a waste of space,
You are space.

Andra Nechita, “You hold the stars up in the night sky.” (via prettypunkass)
Re-blog if you’re accepting anonymous asks from anyone about anything

(Source: hunterraiehorror)



I don’t care how hot you are, if your personality is shit your physical appearance automatically means nothing