jennyeatsbabies.

here lies the death of a young girl--here lies the birth of something more.
this is where my writing goes.
‣ ‣ #storyofagirl | askbox

My brother who reads my short stories and personal essays is obsessed with this idea of showing and not telling.

I don’t know how to tell him that I am afraid of showing roses that are meant to be this certain shade of honeysuckle and people thinking that they are red or coral or pink—I’m afraid that these people will not understand that it is supposed to be honeysuckle, that it cannot exist as anything but.

And I know the answer to this: to write better—to write a scenario where it could not have been anything but—but what if they’ve never felt honeysuckle? What if they don’t know what it means to be honeysuckle? What if they’re color blind and never thought it was important? What if the fact that a honeysuckle rose isn’t actually a thing but an emotion and that it cannot be google imaged keeps people from understand what I mean?

I am afraid that what I’m showing will be wrong, because I don’t see things like everyone else. I’m afraid my writing is too weak—too fearful to say that there was no honeysuckle: there was just this anxiety in my heart that repeated itself in that way.

I don’t know what I am showing—I don’t know what I want to tell. There was a point to this when I started, but now and again I’ve lost myself in the pretense. I want to be a writer and then I don’t. I need to finish my personal statement but then I haven’t.

I’m twenty and still thinking of this color, when I honestly don’t even know what it is.

“Do not try to be pretty. You weren’t meant to be pretty; you were meant to burn down the earth and graffiti the sky. Don’t let anyone ever simplify you to just “pretty.””

Things I Wish My Mother Had Taught Me | d.a.s (via floranymph)

hachigatsu3 asked: I seriously don't think I've laughed at a blog as much as yours. Thank you

dirtypillowsmfc:

When I get sad I look through my blog and I cheer up instantly cause I think holy shit I’m so fucking funny

I wish these words could take me somewhere that wasn’t here.

All I do these days is work and sometimes once a week or every two I’ll have a conversation again with you.

I want to be back in New York—feeling Manhattan stone beneath my feet and street food on my tongue: the musky taste of the city cooked in the halal chicken and the way the yoghurt sauce caused us to scrape the styrofoam containers clean. I miss the feeling of people around me and the way hotels no matter how clean will always smell like people who have been there before.

I miss the 3 AM lights and feeling the rush of people throughout the streets—the walking of thousands I’ll never know who’ve touched my shoulder and the people whose faces I can’t even remember and will never meet again.

I want that. I want the fragile fast-paced nature of humanity to fill every inch of me. I want to be apart of a place that will forget me unless I force it not to. I want to be apart of something that will possibly break me, and prove to the world that I’ve made it back—broken, but put together better than I was before.

This year I will promise: I will make words that will take me

somewhere, that isn’t here.

“The most solid advice for a writer is this, I think: Try to learn to breathe deeply, really to taste food when you eat, and when you sleep really to sleep. Try as much as possible to be wholly alive with all your might, and when you laugh, laugh like hell. And when you get angry, get good and angry. Try to be alive. You will be dead soon enough.”

– Ernest Hemingway (via superior-to-the-sea)

“Some people turn sad awfully young. No special reason, it seems, but they seem almost to be born that way. They bruise easier, tire faster, cry quicker, remember longer and, as I say, get sadder younger than anyone else in the world. I know, for I’m one of them.”

Ray Bradbury (via ileu)

I love you forever.

I’ve been in a relationship for far too long.

I’ve forgotten the delicacies of courtship; the intricacies of self you are meant to hide—the way people are too difficult and too afraid to be loved and to love all at once. I’ve forgotten the things you loved about me were yours and nobody else’s—that I was a wonder to you, and perfection all along.

I’ve forgotten that my behavior is not cute but your perception of it: that my hands and face and mapping of my skin are just superficial frailties; blank, white canvases for you to cover in love and handle with care.

I’ve forgotten that I was your treasure and your pride—that in the beginning it was not so: that I brought on this gradual storm because you broke down your dams—that I started off as both the drizzle and then became the proverbial hurricane

and the things you’ve overlooked are now praised; the pieces you’ve loved: forgotten, and people will never know that all across my organs your hands have laid to bruise. 

We were in love and I glowed; now we’re apart and all of my edges have sharpened and refined: your hands, calloused, and if we meet again I’ll tell you what I always have:

I love you, for now, because you’re apart of me—because my body was once shaped against you and my fingers indented with spaces for yours…

If we meet again I’ll tell you that I love you, still, even if the skin has flaked and gone and healed a layer that has never known of you; because

if we meet again I’ll tell you that I love you forever—these imprints you’ve left on my bones and the stories you’ve stomped into my heart

you were mine and I was yours and in twenty-eight different universes we’re married and capable and in eleven others and this one too we’re perpendicular lines at our crossing.

I’m so glad to have met you—to have held your hand in the east coast and the west; walked through California and Miami and met in a Denver thanksgiving.

I can write you a hundred thousand words and fill books with a million more stories of you and me—about how you had to eat things separately and never together or bought disposable plates and silverware when you lived alone—how you had to kiss my lips, cheeks and then end at my forehead.

I could write about the way you liked that I could not kiss you standing without your help because of the height difference, or how maybe in a few years we’ll be back at where we began but now the things I have left to write about seem ephemeral, and I don’t want to map the remaining dying stars, even if there are a billion more.

“They’ll grab your waist and whisper in your ear but six months later you’ll find yourself drunk texting them that you miss them and they won’t respond.”

– (via sharkeisha)

Makeup doesn’t ‘create’ beauty. It hones it. Defines it.

It’s a cheat sheet of all the best things about you in your physicality. It’s a way to force yourself through the veil of a fast-paced world.

It’s shoving yourself down the throats of men who beg to forget your face: it’s wearing dark red lipstick so people will remember your lips are not just for kissing—that you are there to stain and taint: that sharp liner is made to let them know you are dangerous and capable.

Men will tell you you wear too much makeup because they want to be able to handle you; to have their way with you without having anything left of you to remember—and today or tomorrow: for everyday for the rest of your life you will remind yourself you were not made to be handled like a tiger in captivity.

You were made to stain the sheets with the red of your lips and the smell of your perfume; your face was meant to leave traces on their pillows like the smell of their sweat on our skin and your heels were made to leave impressions on their carpet and noise on the pavement.

You were made to remind them why storms are named after people.

“We were fighting a few days ago. I asked you what you were thinking about, and you said ‘nothing.’ Without missing a beat, I thought, ‘It takes years of meditation to think of absolutely nothing,’ and I stormed out. Infuriated, I walked in the rain wondering why I felt like this. It took me a while, because I’m a little slow, but I realized that what made my blood boil wasn’t the fact that we were pissed off at each other, it was the indifference.
Do you know the quote, ‘The opposite of love is not hate, it’s indifference?’
Well, it’s true.
Anger will be a part of you for as long as you live. Accept it. It’s a normal emotion; a reaction to a perceived threat to ourselves, our loved ones, our property, our self-image, or some part of our identity. Anger is a warning bell that tells us something is wrong.
Indifference on the other hand, makes you feel worthless. It’s an island in your brain where nobody can touch you; it makes the person you’re hiding from feel like you gave up on them.
It’s always easier to ignore the real issue and kick it under the rug. But, over time indifference always sends you a bill of: broken friendships, messy divorces and a lonely bitter life.
I say, undress your anger and figure out what’s hiding underneath. I guarantee you that the world will become a little warmer.”

Undress Your Anger

follow me here

(via apricotpeaches)

I loved you to distraction. I loved you without falter and followed you without hesitation and gave you my heart in a repetition of kisses and my first time without regret. I loved you with ferocity but without anger; strength without lacking in sweetness and I wonder where in these bones of mine where I went wrong.

Men look at me with hunger in their eyes and follow me with smiles and chaste touches and I know that I will cry without breaking and force my heart back into my throat and find a way to love someone the same again but with a terrifying intensity and a more forceful hand.

I will not follow—but run in tandem and find someone who will love me raw.

The difference now is I used to feel worthless; had a need to be needed and now only just a want to be wanted I feel like all of these lines I’ve drawn in the sand have blurred and this is what I am: powerful and refined, vindicated and so much more beautiful than I have ever been.

the most beautiful models and girls and people i’ve seen are those on the edge of terrifyingly ugly but redeem themselves with a sense of ethereal wonder.