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Looking Up

@keepsyoulookingup-blog / keepsyoulookingup-blog.tumblr.com

"My mother says the thing about wheelchairs is that they keep you looking up." - Andrea Gibson
Disability activist. Poet. Hyperpolyglot. Queer as could be.
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5000letters
We are five year olds in the playground again, you are chiming, ‘Who do you love who do you love who do you love?’ My cheeks are stained so red they feel like berries on a summer day. I cannot look at you. I stare at the hole in my socks and fiddle with my hands, I wonder how the sky looks like in other countries, I wonder how I can say your name without stuttering. ‘Is it me, is it me?’ You whisper into my trembling mouth, every smile you’ve ever smiled is suddenly pressed against my teeth ‘because it’s you, even if it’s not me, it’ll still be you.’

Azra.T., “Crush” (via henrymaarchbanks)

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akaelizabeth
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theunquotables
Lately I’ve been thinking about who I want to love, and how I want to love, and why I want to love the way I want to love, and what I need to learn to love that way, and who I need to become to become the kind of love I want to be…and when I break it all down, when I whittle it into a single breath, it essentially comes out like this: Before I die, I want to be somebody’s favorite hiding place, the place they can put everything they know they need to survive, every secret, every solitude, every nervous prayer, and be absolutely certain I will keep it safe. I will keep it safe.

Andrea Gibson (via theunquotables)

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akaelizabeth
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fuckyesfeminist

Average size mannequin with average size woman.

The problem, in one picture.

I never realized until seeing this picture that my interpretation of an average size woman has become REALLY SKEWED oh my god I wanna cry

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akaelizabeth
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poemsbylydia
They ask why you are always writing about the men and you tell them that you aren’t. You are writing about the lessons, the bruises, the rubbing alcohol, the hurt. About what people take, what people leave behind, the photographs. The flowers. You are writing about a blue dress that cost too much money and now shirks in your closet. You are writing about the words, the lies, the promises, the threats, the threatening, the choking. How your ribcage cracked when the first boy who loved you said you weighed too much. You are writing about the dreams, the nightmares. About loving like gravel. About shaving your legs and dressing your lips because you want to be noticed. You are writing about the fear. You are writing about the color of blood, his blood, your blood. You are writing about the kisses that were too metallic. The kisses that left your mouth feeling empty. The liquor, how it persuaded you to leave your hands in someone else’s home. You are writing about how sticky your shirt felt against your chest as he pulled it off and the sand, you are writing about the sand, how you could taste it on his arms. You are writing about the apologies. About giving your phone number to strangers just for the thrill of a message from an unknown number. You are writing about reconstructing your broken bones. You are writing about licking salt. Crying Corona tears. Learning that you are an easy thing to touch and a hard thing to love. They ask why I am always writing about the men and I tell them that I’m not. I am writing about the burning, how I screamed. How I loved. How I loved. How I loved. How I walked away from the battleground. How I survived.

Lydia Wang, “Why Are You Always Writing About Boys?” (via poemsbylydia)

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tattoolit

Finally added the last lines of The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock (T.S. Eliot) to my mermaid. She’s very happy.

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tattoolit

Yours is the light by which my spirit’s born: - you are my sun, my moon, and all my stars. ~ E.E. Cummings

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