Long sleeved flannel around my waist.

Black leather jacket over cropped shirt.

Am I hot or cold?

I don’t know.

How many followers do I have on my fashion blog?

Wake up angry, rub the wrinkles around your eyes. They don’t go away. You’re angry. You’ve been waking up angry for years now. It shows.

There are scratches on your skin where you can’t stand yourself. You brandish them to the world. ‘This is what you have made me.’ This is what the world made you - strong and wild-eyed and built on insecure foundations. This is what the world made you - angry and determined.

You glare at men irately in the street and take up both armrests on public transport. People side-eye you as though you’re unreasonable. A woman sits next to you. She looks tired. You let her have her fair share of the armrest.

Someone opens the door for you on the way to work. You say thank you. They slap your ass as you pass by. You have never wished so vehemently that you could take your words and wrap them around someone’s throat and twist and see their eyes bulge in fright. In your head, they echo what you’re sure you’ve heard leave the mouth of half the female protagonists you’ve ever seen on screen. ‘What are you going to do to me?’

So, you admit it. ‘Do to me.’ I am going to do something to you. You aren’t going to want it. I’m laughing at you, not with you. This is to you, not with you, and certainly not for you. Remember that.

You stop choking them; they fall to the floor. You aren’t sure whether they’re trying to catch their breath because you used force against them or because you stood up for yourself and it actually scared them. Blink: in reality, there was a split second where you decided whether to turn around and say something or to keep walking. You were unsure which would give them power and which would set them straight. They are still staring at your ass as you walk away. You are sure that both of your options would have empowered them, so you may as well have given them a bruise. But you are already gone.

You’ve been waking up angry since you were ten and you saw someone on the news mention women’s rights. What was ‘feminism’, and why did his lip curl when he said it? you wondered, and you searched, and you found red.

You found rape statistics, classroom statistics, boys-are-more-confident-than-girls statistics, why all men want their girlfriends to do anal, why you should please him, mothers taking their daughters to self defence classes, MRA speeches, pro-life opinions, the condescending and harmful thoughts of men before you in chalk on a Google search and the sudden knowledge that it would never hurt a single one of them.

That stranger who commented on Beyoncé’s picture saying exactly what he’d like to do to her will get hired straight out of college. Slack-jawed teachers will jokingly berate their students, preaching ‘boys will be boys’, before frowning pointedly at bare shoulders and skirts above the knee and ‘shouldn’t have risen to the bait’.

When you were ten, you found red, and you’ve never given up red since. Red in your mouth, red in your veins, red in your underwear. Red. Red on your fingernails, red on your lips. You put away nurturing pink and calm blue for another day. Today you wear red.

My birthday is July Twenty Two.

Nineteen with a sense of deep self loathing.

Eighteen with fucked up friends.

Seventeen and mentally unstable.

Sixteen and not a virgin.

Fifteen and you.

Fourteen and boys.

Thirteen and fucked up.

Twelve and almost dead.

Eleven and happy.

Ten and porn.

Nine and dine.

Eight and finger fuckin’.

Seven Six Five Four Three Two, happy.

One and alive.

Zero where I want to be.

I fell in love in the Spring of 2010 and it never left.

My ears refused to listen to music

and only heard the sound of your voice.

My eyes started searching for you 

wherever I went.

I was hanging out with a friend

but I thought I caught a glimpse of you and that’s all I thought about

for the next 20 days. 

It’s you all around me,

it’s you.

It’s always been you.

It’s not that I don’t love you. It’s the sound I heard when I was 9 and my father slammed the front door so hard behind him I swear to god it shook the whole house. For the next 3 years I watched my mother break her teeth on vodka bottles. I think she stopped breathing when he left. I think part of her died. I think he took her heart with him when he walked out. Her chest is empty, just a shattered mess or cracked ribs and depression pills.

It’s not that I don’t love you. It’s all the blood in the sink. It’s the night that I spent 12 hours in the emergency room waiting to see if my sister was going to be okay, after the boy she loved, told her he didn’t love her anymore. It’s the crying, and the fluorescent lights, and white sneakers and pale faces and shaky breaths and blood. So much blood.

It’s not that I don’t love you. It’s the time that I had to stay up for two days straight with my best friend while she cried and shrieked and threw up on my bedroom floor because her boyfriend fucked his ex. I swear to god she still has tear streaks stained onto her cheeks. I think when you love someone, it never really goes away.

It’s not that I don’t love you. It’s the six weeks we had a substitute in English because our teacher was getting divorced and couldn’t handle getting out of bed. When she came back she was smiling. But her hands shook so hard when she held her coffee, you could see that something was broken inside. And sometimes when things break, you can’t fix them. Nothing ever goes back to how it was. I got an A in English that year. I think her head was always spinning too hard to read any essays.

It’s not that I don’t love you. It’s that I do.

It’s not that I don’t love you. 

(via elvaleryn)

My mother and I, we are alike.

I wonder why my mother couldn’t love another man

even after she divorced him.

It was on a summer’s eve

as she trembled and held the divorce papers to her chest

She did what was 5 years in the making

and then it happened.

I wonder why,

every time she kisses her lover

she imagines my father.

They say first love never dies

but it’s not supposed to feel this way forever.

I look at the sadness in her eyes

as she regrets every decision she’s made

when it came to tearing an unhappy family apart

Why do people only change,

after the family has been ripped apart?

I look at my mother, who fell in love at my age

and married, and then divorced

and then fills her heart with regret

and I wonder,

oh I wonder,

if that will happen to me too.

I clutch my chest, unable to bear the pain

It hasn’t happened yet but what if it does?

For my story, similar to hers.

I see the look in my boyfriend’s eyes and I picture the rest of my life

but what if, 15 years down the road

it all falls apart?

Our 5 year anniversary is nothing compared to our would be 30th.

How can I bear the pain of a divorce

How can I bear the pain of losing you

How can I bear the pain my mother endures every day

My cynicism will be the death of us.

A divorce; that wrecked my soul

and my mother’s.

I was 14 and taking my anger out
on maybe someone who did deserve it
all you could say to my young teen self was
calm down, calm down, calm down
and stop being so annoying.
Okay. Okay.

I was 15 and you told me to leave my source of happiness
and to find better, do better, be better.
But my happiness was all I had, and you wanted me to leave it.
Your words injected into my veins
What was once red turned to black.
You broke my soul, oh you broke my soul.

I was 16 and we had a fight,
you slammed the door.
I will almost done gluing the cracks together
and piecing my heart, little by little
One more crack to mend and you were gone forever
but you came back. Oh you came back.

I was 17 and I got messages from you
“my friends think you’re shit”
“I think you’re shit”
Okay, gone.
Months later, came back. Oh fuck oh fuck.

I am 18.
We are no longer talking.
I am no longer sad.
I am better off without you.

Why we are no longer friends. - Eefa