1. Puppy love


  2. "

    I didn’t feel as if my heart was breaking. But it felt as if something was splintering inside me all the same. And every time I saw them together, every piece of gossip someone told me about them, every time The Boy walked into the room and didn’t acknowledge my existence, it felt like there were rubber bands snapping across something soft inside of me that I had never intended to make so vulnerable.

    You didn’t pick me.The words came with jagged edges. And who is to say anyone ever will?

    — sometimes I write things to get them out of my head and away from my heart

  3. "I have so much to see,
    how could I waste
    my god-given youth
    waiting for you
    to open your eyes?"
    — Michelle K., Seeing. (via theflowershop)

    (via ladygr4ce)


  4. The saddest thing about this poem is probably that it’s entirely about neo-platonic love

    You ask me what’s wrong

    And I say I don’t quite know

    Because everyone’s heard

    That the Eskimos have a hundred words for snow

    And probably the Egyptians for sand

    And Hawaiians for waves

    But I don’t have any words

    For the way that I want love

    Desperately and fiercely and achingly

    In the hollow of my chest

    And in the pads of my palms

    And the fine bones of my fingers

    I don’t have words for the way I need this

    To live and lead and survive

    And they tell me you need to give love to get it

    But I’ve given it

    Over and over and over again

    And my hands are bruised and scarred and aching

    From being slapped away

    And they are empty

    From being given nothing in return

    So I have no answer for you

    I can’t explain it

    Either to you or to me  

    I just don’t have the words to


  5. So you don’t want to hook up with me

    And that’s fine

    Because I’ll just take the black song of my hair

    This pop ballad with an acoustic beat

    And wind it through my fingers instead

    Because I’ll just take my hands

    And use them for something other

    Than tangling them through your sheets

    And running them through your hair

    And down your sides

    Maybe I’ll use them to paint my lips bright red

    Or turn the pages of my latest novel

    Or maybe I’ll write this

    So fuck you

    And maybe you can’t handle the way I

    Won’t laugh at things I don’t find funny or

    Am always in Technicolor

    With the volume turned up

    Dancing on tabletops completely sober

    And far too real and too human

    To be anyone’s Manic Pixie Dreamgirl

    And I feel bad for you

    Because I remember birthdays

    And write killer limericks

    And bake cookies for no reason

    And my restless heart and needy hands

    Can connect in a way

    That is loud and brightly colored and everything

    So I’m sorry you didn’t want me

    And I’m sorry for what could have been

    But, you know, whatever

    I still have my fire

    And you avoided getting burned 

  6. solennita:


    Do you Know what is happening in Venezuela? This is what is happening. This is what has been happening during a week. The students have been protesting in a pacific way against the repressive and tyrant government that we have since 1999 (yes, 15 years living with insecurity, food and medicine shortages, deprivation of liberty, and media blackout) and what is the police and the army doing? Beating us, shooting us, and recently some students were condemned to jail for 13 years!! For what crime? For claiming justice and democracy. Please, share this post, the world needs to know.




    (Source: fvder)

  7. "I wish I could tell my skin that it is made of fire. That it covers blood and bone and muscle no different in makeup from Jennifer Lawrence or Michelle Obama or Emma Watson.

    I wish I could tell my skin that it exists as a covering for what is pulsing within my body, that it has been designed to keep me safe, and that anyone who cares more about wrapping paper than what it contains inside is a fool.

    And I am learning that even the people who love me can be foolish.

    I am trying to come to peace with something I never used to cry over.

    I am trying to tell my skin, I am trying to tell myself, I am trying to tell my mother and my family and whoever I want to love me that I am more than my color.

    But I am my color, too.

    My skin is not a shade an Indian mother can be proud of, my skin is the color of cinnamon and peeled-back tree bark, and my skin never used to make me ashamed.”

    -“Made of Fire” by me for The Michigan Daily. Read the rest here 

  8. Re-editing basketball photos because why not.

    Michigan vs. Wisconsin

    Teresa Mathew/Daily

  9. Teresa Mathew/Daily

  10. the marching band being generally adorable