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i promise

@tearstainsandspilledink / tearstainsandspilledink.tumblr.com

twenty six letters in the English language can make thousands of hundreds of millions of words. an expression of love, anger, betrayal. a story only you can tell. ♥♥♥
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inkskinned

i have thought a lot about censorship and what is “appropriate”. not a lot of people know this, but lolita was written to show what we allow on our bookshelves: there being no swear words in it meant it was free from censorship. a book about child molestation was allowed because it didn’t explicitly use the word “fuck”. he wrote it to show we don’t really care about protecting children, and it ended up being seen as a romance.

someone once told me - actually, many people have - that lgbt content isn’t appropriate for children. any content. not just kissing. i’m drowned in questions: “won’t the parents have to explain it?” “kids shouldn’t be thinking about sex at this age, or do you think differently?” “what will the kids think?”

at six i saw disney movies. people kiss and get married. i didn’t ask “what does that mean.” i didn’t ask “are those people going to have sex?” i didn’t ask anything, because i was six, and no six year old thinks twice about these things. nobody ever “explained” being straight to me, it was a fact, and it existed, and i was fine with that. why would being gay require a thesis, i wonder.

someone once told me that the one of the reasons people hate lgbt individuals is because they can’t see us as anything but sexual. we’re not people, so much as sinners. that they don’t see love, they see sex. just sex. it’s perversion, not a matter of the heart. only of the body.

i think i was in my early twenties before i saw someone like me. 

how old were you, though, before you saw violence? before you saw sexual assault on tv? i think something like that is only pg-13, and if it’s implied, they can get away with anything. i remember watching things and learning about blood, but knowing sex - sex was what was really wrong. sex was always rated r. sex was always kind of a bad word. i was told a lot that i wasn’t ready.

i had a dream last night that i made a site where people could ask any question they wanted about sex and get answered by a professional. it was shut down in moments because 15 year olds wanted to know if it should hurt, if “double-bagging” was a real thing, if this, if that. we shudder. don’t let the children know about that! 

but at thirteen i had seen enough violence it no longer struck me. i couldn’t say “fuck” but i knew that if you break your femur, you can bleed out internally in under half an hour. in school i wasn’t allowed to write about loving girls because what would the administration think - but i could write about wanting to kill myself and people would say how lovely, how blistering.

i have thought a lot about censorship. sometimes people on this site try it with me: don’t write this, don’t be so nasty. some of it is intrinsic. we know as people with a uterus not to complain about “that time of the month”, we know better than to talk about sexual assault (how shameful), we know that talking about a vagina is somehow scandalous. i can say “dick” and nobody questions me. some people only refer to the bottom half of me by “pussy”. they won’t wrap a mouth around “vagina” like it’s poison to them. even discussing this, that the language halts, that there’s an intrinsic desire to say “girls” instead of “women” - feels naughty, illicit. not for children.

the other day someone suggested i make my blog 18+. i said, okay, it deals a lot with depression and other problems that might be for a mature audience. oh no, they said, that’s not it, i think that’s helpful. i said, okay. so what is it then. well, you’re gay. you write about loving women. and i said, i don’t write about sex often and they said. it’s not about the sex. but wlw isn’t for a general audience. teenagers aren’t ready.

oh.

lolita is recommended for high school and up. i think about that a lot. i know girls who love it, who say it speaks to them on a deep level. it’s beautiful prose, after all. that was the whole point of the novel. something that looked like a rose but was intrinsically awful. i think about how if i was a model they’d want me to look young, thin, prepubescent. how my body would be sold and how through the mall i walk by images of barely-clothed women while mothers cannot breastfeed in public without fear of retribution. 

i think about how i can write a novel about violence and it will be pg-13 but if my characters say “fuck” twice it’s inappropriate. i said fuck three times so far in this post, which makes it only appropriate for adults. 

i think about that, and how my identity is something that people suggest lines up with a swear word. that people shouldn’t talk about it. that it’s a vulgarity. bad for children, harsh, confusing.

fuck. i love women. which one makes this only for those over eighteen.

This is such a powerful post. Read it fully, and spread it around.

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I love it when you see someone really beautiful, and you just have to, kind of, stop? You know? Stop, and stare? I saw somebody beautiful today. Her hair glowed as the sun beamed across her and she grinned, at what, I don’t know, but she grinned; her braces caught my attention and I found myself smiling, too. You see, she’s the sort of person that probably isn’t model worthy - but let me tell you something, my god was she worthy of my attention. Her eyes gleamed with such happiness and she looked like an angel. I wanted to meet her, but instead, I held the smile on my face that matched hers, and carried on with my day. We hadn’t spoken in those few moments, but she’d lightened my spirits, and my heart felt less heavy. I hope one day she knows how incredible she is.

@tearstainsandspilledink // for the girl on the street

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coldsuicide
small steps and hasty mornings of tracing the creases in your forehead, paintings on backs and cups of tea on Thursday afternoons. screaming and flying ornaments, apologies and meaningful kisses. such a pretty concept, but we don’t fit into it. we’re more: late night jokes and imagining the feel of your body sat next to me, cups of tea at 4am when we can’t sleep. laughing so hard our stomach hurts and watching movies we don’t even like. talking about how your face looks so fresh in the morning light and nose kisses to make things right.

my love, we’ll get through this. together, we are stronger, than alone. (via coldsuicide)

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Breathing in the fresh scent of fall, I take a step from my garden; The sun shines brightly above me, Why had I ignored this for so long? A stray cat struts along the sidewalk, Streaks of white and grey, I smile, You love cats, especially fat ones, Didn’t you tell me you want fifty? Leaves lay on the ground, Bringing my attention to the bare trees, Relaxing I begin the walk, Away from my self-made prison. I am at peace.

@tearstainsandspilledink// self-love

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I’m not saying that the world should stop spinning to give me a second to breathe, in fact, maybe I wish it would spin faster to help the stumble in my mind every now and then; perhaps speed will ensure I don’t have the time to trip. It isn’t that I’m ungrateful for the blessings I’ve been given, because I know, taking them for granted would be almost lethal. Trust me, I know what I’ve got and I wouldn’t change it for the world. My hands still tingle when I lounge in hot baths and my favourite ice cream is still the best thing on a warm day and I’ll still sing along to the radio. I think, maybe, I’m just a little bit behind. My brain hasn’t processed the ascent in my happiness, like a blip on a computer a screen, a lag on the console. I think, maybe, I’m still a little bit broken, but give me some time, and I shall heal.

@tearstainsandspilledink // anon question.

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coldsuicide
I hope you see this, i hope you cry because this never ending panic attack has been brought on by you. You’re almost as worse as the darkness in your mind and the lack of sympathy is a tea spoon of salt rubbed into the wound. You’re a disgrace to me.

I hope you feel big now that i’m small. (via coldsuicide)

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me: sitting on the couch, minding my own business
my impulse control: walks in the room w/ a hat on and two suitcases in hand
me: where are you going?
my impulse control: out
me: for... for how long, buddy...?
my impulse control, nodding solemnly, walking out the door: Yeah
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