“It’s a funny thing coming home. Nothing changes. Everything looks the same, feels the same, even smells the same. You realize what’s changed is you.” F. Scott Fitzgerald (via decadere)

(Source: gordftw, via wrongwaykid)


heart-shaped-apple: Uschi Obermaier


heart-shaped-apple: Uschi Obermaier

“Everyone wants to be the sun to lighten up everyone’s life, but why not be the moon, to brighten in the darkest hour.” My favorite quote. (via sleepy-bat)

(Source: cathreine, via aeilrahc)

“Sometimes we just have to cut off the dead branches in our life. Sometimes that’s the only way we can keep the tree alive. It’s hard and it hurts, but it’s what’s best.” Nicole Williams (via onlinecounsellingcollege)

(via ghostlyapparent)

“We like to be out in nature so much because it has no opinion about us.” Friedrich Nietzsche - Human, All Too Human (via sisyphean-revolt)

(via ghostlyapparent)

“It’s all about falling in love with yourself and sharing that love with someone who appreciates you, rather than looking for love to compensate for a self love deficit.” Eartha Kitt   (via didyoueatallthisacid)

(Source: freyjageist, via ghostlyapparent)

“Do you know what your problem is? You can’t live with the idea that someone might leave.” ― John Green (via psych-quotes)

(via thepoopingeye)


What was she like? I’ve waited my entire life to be asked that question. God.
What was she like?

She was beautiful. She tasted like the ocean and smelled like clementines. She wore peach lipstick and brown mascara. On

Sundays she would fill the bathtub with roses and milk. When
it was spring and the air felt raw against your skin, she would

wake herself up at three in the morning and smoke cigarettes
in the balcony. When I gave her roses on some date she gave

them to a homeless man on the way to the restaurant. She wore
dirty sneakers with the words “peace” written in red sharpie and

a white dress that hugged her wide hips to my mothers 58th
birthday party. The one where ladies asked what she was

studying and she replied Art History. She was in Pre-Med at
the top university in New York City. She said things like “we don’t

open the mail on Tuesdays” and “let’s tell the barista you’ve just found out you’re cured from cancer”. When her mother would call

begging her to come to church she would send her poems about
how birds on the telephone line are her religion. She only liked

walking around the city if it rained. What was she like? She went to train stations because she thought the homeless man playing the

violin was the best concert she’d ever find. I often asked her what
she thought of me. Her laugh was like honey. When I took her to my

gallery opening she invited her taxi driver. She had the moon
tattooed on her inner thigh. She spelled the words “infinity” onto

the crook of my neck. I remember once she took a photograph
of an elderly man speaking to his wife at her gravestone.

She called me on the way home: “Well what were you doing at the cemetery?” I asked. “Robert,” She’d said, “Don’t ask such absurd

questions.” What was she like? I woke up alone some mornings.
Her suitcase would be scattered and she screamed because she

couldn’t pay the gas bill. Our lights would turn off. What was she
like? She’d light candles in every single corner of the house. She

would read these big books written by Russian authors who didn’t know the difference between love and lust. “Oh,” She once said,

"And you do?" I laughed. I was so in love with her. The curves of her hip. The smooth tint of her back. Her eyebrows. Her smile. How her

eyes were green sea’s I saw in travel brochures. What was she like? She was the type of person to write you love poetry and bake pies

and convince you that 4:50 AM was the best time of day. What is
she like? And this is the part where my throat will burn and I’ll

scratch my collar bones because how much it hurts,
“Why don’t you ask him” I’ll say. Why don’t you ask


I’m sorry it had to end like this  (via 33113)

(Source: irynka, via thestringcheeseincident)


What’s Genocide?

their high school principal
told me I couldn’t teach
poetry with profanity
so I asked my students,
“Raise your hand if you’ve heard of the Holocaust.”
in unison, their arms rose up like poisonous gas
then straightened out like an SS infantry
“Okay. Please put your hands down.
Now raise your hand if you’ve heard of the Rwandan genocide.”
blank stares mixed with curious ignorance
a quivering hand out of the crowd
half-way raised, like a lone survivor
struggling to stand up in Kigali
“Luz, are you sure about that?”
“That’s what I thought.”

“Carlos—what’s genocide?”

they won’t let you hear the truth at school
if that person says “fuck”
can’t even talk about “fuck”
even though a third of your senior class
is pregnant.

I can’t teach an 18-year-old girl in a public school
how to use a condom that will save her life
and that of the orphan she will be forced
to give to the foster care system—
“Carlos, how many 13-year-olds do you know that are HIV-positive?”

“Honestly, none. But I do visit a shelter every Monday and talk with
six 12-year-old girls with diagnosed AIDS.”
while 4th graders three blocks away give little boys blowjobs during recess
I met an 11-year-old gang member in the Bronx who carries
a semi-automatic weapon to study hall so he can make it home
and you want me to censor my language

“Carlos, what’s genocide?”

your books leave out Emmett Till and Medgar Evers
call themselves “World History” and don’t mention
King Leopold or diamond mines
call themselves “Politics in the Modern World”
and don’t mention Apartheid

“Carlos, what’s genocide?”

you wonder why children hide in adult bodies
lie under light-color-eyed contact lenses
learn to fetishize the size of their asses
and simultaneously hate their lips
my students thought Che Guevara was a rapper
from East Harlem
still think my Mumia t-shirt is of Bob Marley
how can literacy not include Phyllis Wheatley?
schools were built in the shadows of ghosts
filtered through incest and grinding teeth
molded under veils of extravagant ritual

“Carlos, what’s genocide?”

“Roselyn, how old was she? Cuántos años tuvo tu madre cuando se murió?”

“My mother had 32 years when she died. Ella era bellísima.”

…what’s genocide?

they’ve moved from sterilizing “Boriqua” women
injecting indigenous sisters with Hepatitis B,
now they just kill mothers with silent poison
stain their loyalty and love into veins and suffocate them

…what’s genocide?

Ridwan’s father hung himself
in the box because he thought his son
was ashamed of him

…what’s genocide?

Maureen’s mother gave her
skin lightening cream
the day before she started the 6th grade

…what’s genocide?

she carves straight lines into her
beautiful brown thighs so she can remember
what it feels like to heal

…what’s genocide?
…what’s genocide?

“Carlos, what’s genocide?”

“Luz, this…
this right here…
is genocide.”

“What’s Genocide?” by Carlos Andres Gomez  (via notana)

(Source: gringoallstar, via thinknorth)

“A woman made of parts is a dangerous thing. You never know when she’ll throw away a piece you may need.” Heidi W. Durrow, The Girl Who Fell from the Sky (via observando)
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