Go ahead, talk to me.


Frida Kahlo by Nickolas Muray seen today @ Scuderie Del Quirinale, Rome

“I paint myself because I am so often alone and because I am the subject I know best.” 
― Frida Kahlo

(Source: headlikeanorange)


This is Yenifer, from Guatemala.  She is eight years old.  She was in an accident, along with her twelve year old sister and eleven other migrants, in Chiapas, Mexico.  The driver of the truck died.  They wanted to reach the United States.


This is Yenifer, from Guatemala.  She is eight years old.  She was in an accident, along with her twelve year old sister and eleven other migrants, in Chiapas, Mexico.  The driver of the truck died.  They wanted to reach the United States.

(Source: The Huffington Post)


I’m sleepy and I wish I was kissing you.


This is how you lose her.

You lose her when you forget to remember the little things that mean the world to her: the sincerity in a stranger’s voice during a trip to the grocery, the delight of finding something lost or forgotten like a sticker from when she was five, the selflessness of a child giving a part of his meal to another, the scent of new books in the store, the surprise short but honest notes she tucks in her journal and others you could only see if you look closely.

You must remember when she forgets.

You lose her when you don’t notice that she notices everything about you: your use of the proper punctuation that tells her continuation rather than finality, your silence when you’re about to ask a question but you think anything you’re about to say to her would be silly, your mindless humming when it is too quiet, your handwriting when you sign your name in blank sheets of paper, your muted laughter when you are trying to be polite, and more and more of what you are, which you don’t even know about yourself, because she pays attention.

She remembers when you forget.

You lose her for every second you make her feel less and less of the beauty that she is. When you make her feel that she is replaceable. She wants to feel cherished. When you make her feel that you are fleeting. She wants you to stay. When you make her feel inadequate. She wants to know that she is enough and she does not need to change for you, nor for anyone else because she is she and she is beautiful, kind and good.

You must learn her.

You must know the reason why she is silent. You must trace her weakest spots. You must write to her. You must remind her that you are there. You must know how long it takes for her to give up. You must be there to hold her when she is about to.

You must love her because many have tried and failed. And she wants to know that she is worthy to be loved, that she is worthy to be kept.

And, this is how you keep her.


Junot Diaz, This is How You Lose Her (via golden-notes)

(Source: mpdrolet)

ARTIST: Tracy Chapman

TRACK: Fast Car

PLAYS: 3,281

(Source: suomi-finland-perkele)

I hope one day

somebody loves you
so much

that they see violets
in the bags under your eyes,
sunsets in the downward arch
of your lips,

that they recognize you
as something green,
something fresh and still growing,
even if sometimes
you are growing sideways,

that they do not waste their time
trying to fix you.

(Source: tristamateer)

"yarn, n.

Maybe language is kind, giving us these double meanings. Maybe it’s trying to teach us a lesson, that we can always be two things at once.
Knit me a sweater out of your best stories. Not the day’s petty injustices. Not the glimmer of a seven-eighths-forgotten moment from your past. Not something that somebody said to somebody, who then told it to you. No, I want a yarn. It doesn’t have to be true.
“Okay,” you say. “Do you want to know how I met you?”
I nod.
“It was on the carousel. You were on the pink horse, I was on the yellow. You were two horses ahead of me, and from the moment you got in the saddle, I wanted to draw up right next to you and say hello.
“Around and around we went, and I kept waiting for my horse to pull ahead. I sensed it would know when I was ready, and it was waiting for that moment. You rose and you fell, and I followed, and I followed. I thought my chance would never come. But then, like magic, all the power in the entire city went out at once. It was darkness, utter darkness. The music stopped, and there were only heartbeats to be heard. Heartbeats. I couldn’t see you, and worried that you’d left. But right at that moment, the moon came out from behind the clouds. And there you were. I stepped off my horse just as you stepped off yours. I turned right and you turned left. We met in the middle.”
“And what did you say?”
“Don’t you remember? I said, ‘What a lovely evening this is.’ And you said, ‘I was just thinking the same thing.’ ” As long as we can conjure, who needs anything else? As long as we can agree on the magical lie and be happy, what more is there to ask for?
“I loved you from that moment on,” I say.
“I loved you from that moment on,” you agree."

David Levithan, from The Lover’s Dictionary (via hiddenshores)


When I say, Be my lover, I don’t mean, Let’s have an affair. I don’t mean, Sleep with me. I don’t mean, Be my secret.

I want us to go back down to that root.

I want you to be the one who loves me.

I want to be the one who loves you.


David Levithan, The Lover’s Dictionary (via rabbitinthemoon)

Anonymous asked: Before you got a BF :(

Well, I’m shy. And if people don’t make moves I don’t notice, and even if I did, i wouldn’t tell you unless you’d ask.
Too late now. Sorry.

My mom was planning me a surprise birthday party after i had already given up on the idea of doing anything for my birthday. Well, someone accidentally told me today, and now I must face my mother and pretend not to know.