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this is just survival

@danigreyjoy / danigreyjoy.tumblr.com

daniela // 25 // she/they // nb // jewish // white // powerlifter // massachusetts // please let me know if you need me to tag something
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whenever right wing people talk about “parental rights” they are talking about property rights. they are arguing for further political and legal enshrinement of their children as their literal actual property

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troublefemme

butches who are soft and gentle when they're with you, butches who are cuddly and want to touch you in whatever way they can all the time, butches who look for your hand to hold, butches who melt when you hold them close, butches who look at you with heart eyes, butches who fall asleep in minutes once you're playing with their hair, butches showing their emotions and that they want closeness 🥺

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Cool thing about being an adult is all of your problems would be fixed if you just had the next day off of work. Not literally but like metaphorically. And sometimes you do have the next day off

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acelessthan3

Posting faggot and queer like 2am gunshots to keep property values on my blog low and scare away assimilationist LGBTs who want to replace my empty lot full of native wildflowers with a 5-over-1 because they're too traumatized by their upbringing to accept the reality of our diverse marginalized community

The dykes and trannies in the notes have informed me they would like to be included in this commentary on the homogenizing forces of gentrification within the queer community as represented by language discourse around "slur" reclamation

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We need to start sexualizing mobility aids

[Text ID: torrin a. greathouse

SICK4SICK

I think my lover's cane is sexy. The way they walk like a rainstorm stumbles slow across the landscape. How, with fingers laced together, our boots & canes click in time-unsteady rhythm of a metronome's limp wrist. All sway & swish, first person I ever saw walk with a lisp. Call this our love language of unspokens: We share so many symptoms, the first time we thought to hyphenate our names was, playfully, to christen ourselves a new disorder. We trade tips on medication, on how to weather what prescriptions make you sick to [maybe] make you well. We make toasts with acetaminophen bought in bulk. Kiss in the airport terminal through surgical masks. Rub the knots from each others' backs. We dangle FALL RISK bracelets from our walls & call it decoration. We visit another ER & call it a date. When we are sick, again, for months -with a common illness that will not leave-it is not the doctors who care for us. We make do ourselves. At night, long after the sky has darkened-in-something like a three-day-bruise, littered with satellites I keep mistaking for stars-our bodies are fever-sweat stitched. A chimera. Shadow-puppet of our lust. Bones bowed into a new beast [with two backs, six legs of metal & flesh & carbon fiber]. Beside my love, I find I can't remember any prayers so I whisper the names of our medications like the names of saints. Orange bottles scattered around the mattress like unlit candles in the dark. /End ID]

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kommetz

reading a textbook for class and i’m going insane. why is this just poetry. what. this is a STEM class what’s going on.

HELLO????? HELLO?????

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sapphling

"stabbing as a penetration metaphor is so old and predictable 🙄" oh yeah i forgot that's why everyone thinks that butter on bread is trite and passé and not one of the most fundamentally fulfilling and comforting culinary combinations known to many. You idiot. You fucking rube.

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working timeline of (us) hot labor summer wins

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