“'Tell me what happens the first time you see a woman naked.'
‘The first time you see a woman naked will not be like you imagined. There will be no love, no trust, no intimacy. You won’t even be in the same room as her.
You won’t get to smile as she undresses you and you undress her. You won’t get to calm her nerves with nerves of your own. You won’t get to kiss her, feeling her lips and the edge of her tongue. You won’t get to brush your fingers over the lace of her bra or count her ribs or feel her heartbeat.
The first time you see a woman naked you will be sitting in front of a computer screen watching someone play at intimacy and perform at sex. She will contort her body to please everyone in the room but her. You will watch this woman who is not a woman, pixelated and filtered and customized. She will come ready-made, like an order at a restaurant. The man on the screen will be bigger than you, rougher than you. He will teach you how to talk to her. He will teach you where to put your hands and he will teach you what you’re supposed to like. He will teach you to take what is yours.
You must unlearn this. You must unlearn this twisted sense of love. You must unlearn the definition of pleasure and intimacy you are being taught. Kill this idea of love, this idea of entitlement, this way of scarring one another.’”—
“I’ve gained some weight but you don’t care.
And when you look at me,
I see the same hunger in your eyes as that first night.
My body’s stretched and I’m self conscious about the markings
but you still run your fingers across my hips with no hesitation.
I don’t know if I’m beautiful but I know that you think so.”—Unknown.
I just read your description and OMG FORENSICS! Would you mind telling me how it is to study it?
The forensic component of my course doesn’t commence until 2015, but for those whom struggle academically, like me, math and chemistry is incredibly taxing and requires quite a lot of study. That aside, working in the laboratory and playing with chemicals is enriching. I can’t see myself in any other profession.
I'm not trying to be rude (just see where you're coming from) what about the glorification of people who ended/ ruined lives seems to be a good idea to you?
its not glorification. do you see me ever saying “yay killing people is fun” or that the men on my arms are cool?
YOU are glorifying them. not me. all you people saying i’m glorifying them, you’re the ones glorifying it. not me. i’m simply expressing myself, expressing my fascination with the deranged, expressing myself.
you people are so fucking ridiculous. shoving not just words but opinions on others. you don’t know shit about me. or my tattoos. or the people on my arm. or the victims of those people. you don’t even give a fuck about them. you didn’t know them. you didn’t cry for them. you didn’t even know they existed. you just see the word “serial killer” and think “aww DA BAD MANNNNNN”… but you don’t know shit.
My house is in utter chaos. Dad is driving mum to the Hospital because her bandages are leaking blood and I’m in my room, crying, because I felt too overwhelmed trying to help dress her for no other reason than being too scared to unintentionally inflict pain on someone else.
Every day for the last two months my brother’s friends have occupied my house and I’m not sure whether I’m happy that he finally has a decent social life or slightly jealous that his social life over eight weeks exceeds my accumulated social life from the last five years.
“WARNING: I have memories like landmines.
You cannot possibly walk carefully enough.
There are days I open my mouth and all that
Comes out is apologies. Days when I’m sorry
But you can’t fucking touch me.”—"Broken" by clementinevonradics.
I completed my first three assignments (which I received yesterday) and they aren’t due until the end of October. Now I can spend more time studying chemistry and attempt the planning for my gas-chromatography report.
“I wonder if you know yet that you’ll leave me. That you are a child playing with matches and I have a paper body. You will meet a girl with a softer voice and stronger arms and she will not have violent secrets or an affection for red wine or eyes that never stay dry. You will fall into her and I’ll go back to spending Friday nights with ones who never learn my last name. I have chased off every fool who has tried to sleep beside me. You think it’s romantic to fuck the girl who writes poems about you. You think I’ll understand your sadness because I live inside my own. But I will show up at your door at 2am, wild eyed and sleepless and try and find some semblance of peace in your breastbone and you will not let me in. You will tell me to go home.”—Clementine Von Radics.