the peach pit

I N T J

→ clever, analytical, pragmatic, logical, and are not scared to tell someone (or themselves) when they’re being stupid. they emphasize efficiency, making them simultaneously loners and excellent leaders. their natural talent for planning and system-building often makes them the perfect villains. x

1 hour ago with 2,626 notes via crentist
6 hours ago with 326,254 notes via moon-traveler © trezpassing)

“Perhaps we’ll meet again when we’re better for each other.”

Ten Word Poem #6 via (poemsbysmm)

6 hours ago with 243,464 notes via veewolves © poemsbysmm)

trust:

i want a relationship but i want them to be like a friend to me, i dont want the relationship to be all about kissing, making out and sex i just wanna hang out with them, and go places, and just have fun wherever we go

6 hours ago with 199,232 notes via moon-traveler © trust)

Rape culture is when I was six, and
my brother punched my two front teeth out.
Instead of reprimanding him, my mother
said “Stefanie, what did you do to provoke him?”
When my only defense was my
mother whispering in my ear, “Honey, ignore him.
Don’t rile him up. He just wants a reaction.”
As if it was my sole purpose, the reason
six-year-old me existed,
was to not rile up my brother.
It’s starts when we’re six, and ends
when we grow up assuming the natural state of a man
is a predator, and I must walk on eggshells, as to
not “rile him up.” Right, mom?

Rape culture is when through casual dinner conversation,
my father says that women who get raped are asking for it.
He says, “I see them on the streets of New York City,
with their short skirts and heavy makeup. Asking for it.”
When I used to be my father’s hero but
will he think I was asking for it? (will he think)
Will he think I deserved it?
Will he hold me accountable or will he hold me,
even though the touch of a man - especially my father’s -
burns as if I were holding the sun in the palm of my hand.

Rape culture is you were so ashamed, you thought it would
be easier for your parents to find you dead,
than to say, “Hey mom and dad,”
It wasn’t my fault. I didn’t ask for it.
I never asked for this attention, I never asked
to be a target, to be weak because I was born with
two X chromosomes, to walk in fear, to always look behind me,
in front of me, next to me, I never asked to be the prey.
I never wanted to spend my life being something
someone feasts upon, a meal for the eternally starved.
I do not want to hear about the way I taste anymore.
I will not let you eat me alive.

Rape culture is I shouldn’t defend my friend when
an overaggressive frat boy has his hand on her ass,
because standing up for her body “makes me a target.”
Women are afraid to speak up, because
they fear their own lives - but I’d rather take the hit
than live in a culture of silence.
I am told that I will always be the victim, pre-determined
by the DNA in my weaker, softer body.
I have birthing hips, not a fighter’s stance.
I am genetically pre-dispositioned to lose every time.

Rape culture is he was probably abused as a child.
When he even has some form of a justification
and all I have are the things that provoked him,
and the scars from his touch are woven of the darkest
and toughest strings, underneath the layer of my skin.
Rape culture leaves me finding pieces of him left inside of me.
A bone of his elbow. The cap of his knee.
There is something so daunting in the way that I know it will take
me years to methodically extract him from my body.
And that twinge I will get sometimes in my arm fifteen years later?
Proof of the past.
Like a tattoo I didn’t ask for.
Somehow I am permanently inked.

Rape culture is you can’t wear that outfit anymore
without feeling dirty, without feeling like
you somehow earned it.
You will feel like you are walking on knives,
every time you wear the shoes
you smashed his nose in with.
Imaginary blood on the bottom of your heels,
thinking, maybe this will heal me.
Those shoes are your freedom,
But the remains of a life long fight.
You will always carry your heart,
your passion, your absolute will to live,
but also the shame and the guilt and the pain.
I saved myself but I still feel like I’m walking on knives.

Rape culture is “Stefanie, you weren’t really raped, you were
one of the lucky ones.”
Because my body wasn’t penetrated by a penis,
but fingers instead, that I should feel lucky.
I should get on my hands and knees and say, thank you.
Thank you for being so kind.
Rape culture is “things could have been worse.”
“It’s been a month, Stefanie. Get out of bed.”
“You’ll have to get over this eventually.”
“Don’t let it ruin your life.”
Rape culture is he told you that after he touched you,
no one would ever want you again.
And you believed him.

Rape culture is telling your daughters not to get raped,
instead of teaching your sons how to treat all women.
That sex is not a right. You are not entitled to this.
The worst possible thing you can call a woman is a
slut, a whore, a bitch.
The worst possible thing you can call a man is a
bitch, a pussy, a girl.
The worst thing you can call a girl is a girl.
The worst thing you can call a guy is a girl.
Being a woman is the ultimate rejection,
the ultimate dismissal of strength and power, the
absolute insult.
When I have a daughter,
I will tell her that she is not
an insult.

When I have a daughter, she will know how to fight.
I will look at her like the sun when she comes home
with anger in her fists.
Because we are human beings and we do not
always have to take what we are given.
They all tell her not to fight fire with fire,
but that is only because they are afraid of her flames.
I will teach her the value of the word “no” so that
when she hears it, she will not question it.
My daughter,
Don’t you dare apologize for the fierce love
you have for yourself
and the lengths you go to preserve it.

My daughter,
I am alive because of the fierce love I have
for myself, and because my father taught me
to protect that.
He taught me that sometimes, I have to do
my own bit of saving, pick myself off the
ground and wipe the dirt off my face,
because at the end of the day,
there is only me.
I am alive because my mother taught me
to love myself.
She taught me that I am an enigma - a
mystery, a paradox, an unfinished masterpiece and
I must love myself enough to see how I turn out.
I am alive because even beaten, voiceless, and back
against the wall, I knew there was an ounce of me
worth fighting for.
And for that, I thank my parents.

Instead of teaching my daughter to cover herself up,
I will show her how to be exposed.
Because no is not “convince me”.
No is not “I want it”.
You call me,
“Little lady, pretty girl, beautiful woman.”
But I am not any of these things for you.
I am exploding light,
my daughter will be exploding light,
and you,
better cover your eyes.

slk

Rape Culture (Cover Your Eyes)

This is so beautiful. Authentic. Painful. Real.

(via bgoz9288) youlostagoodonesir xinvertedrealityx ❤️❤️❤️ (via anotherwalkingscandal)

“Please don’t expect me to always be good and kind and loving. There are times when I will be cold and thoughtless and hard to understand.”

Sylvia Plath (via soulsscrawl)

6 hours ago with 40,146 notes via centaine © psych-facts)

zooeyclairedeschanel:

i have no interest in small talk tell me about ur childhood and what ur parents are like and how many siblings u have and if u are afraid of death or if u believe in an afterlife and what ur favorite movie is and if u like romantic comedies or horror movies or action movies and what kind of music u like and why and tell me the bands or artists u loved in middle school but are too ashamed to admit to anyone else

“You know when you think it’s love, but it’s so passionate that it becomes aggressive. It is an attractive quality to me. In a world where everyone is bored, I like people with emotion.”

 Lana Del Rey on Ultraviolence (via wordsthat-speak)

7 hours ago with 1,552 notes via walsh-twins © wordsthat-speak)

asylum-art:

NeSpoon Polska: Lace Street Art
  on Behance
Warsaw-based artist NeSpoon uses ornate lace patterns in her unique brand of street art that translates into ceramics, stencils, paintings, and crocheted webbing installed in public spaces. NeSpoon refers to her art as “public jewelry,” specifically as an act of beautification by turning abandoned and unadorned spaces into something aesthetically pleasing. You can see much more over Warsaw-based artist NeSpoon uses ornate lace patterns in her unique brand of street art that translates into ceramics, stencils, paintings, and crocheted webbing installed in public spaces. NeSpoon refers to her art as “public jewelry,” specifically as an act of beautification by turning abandoned and unadorned spaces into something aesthetically pleasing.
7 hours ago with 1,611 notes via asylum-art

enginkid88modern:

RENÉ MAGRITTE (1898-1967) - L’ÉTAT DE VEILLE

7 hours ago with 3,018 notes via lewdie © enginkid88modern)
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