“He’s too proud. One day he will make a fire out of me. One sheet of my dry skin, crushed for kindling. 5 brittle bones for tinder. Poking and prodding in a brick cave, he will blow and give it life. I will glow, with orange meringue peaks along my back. He will smile. He doesn’t know that it was me.”
“The rain will eventually come, or not. / Until then, we touch our bodies like wounds— / the war never ended and somehow begins again.”
— Natalie Diaz, from “Postcolonial Love Poem,” Postcolonial Love Poem (via lifeinpoetry)
Rugrats (1990-2006)
Fight Club (1999, dir. David Fincher)
Betty White and a bear stop what you’re doing and reblog
