what happened and what it meant

:-: it is here where she must begin to tell her story :-:
Love, it will not betray you, dismay or enslave you, it will set you free. Remember this.

gehayi:

youmightbeamisogynist:

naamahdarling:

mythosidhe:

Although I have to point out that there was a piece of speculative science fiction called The Blazing World published by one Margaret Cavendish, Duchess of Newcastle-upon-Tyne in 1666, slightly predating Mary Shelley.

This is the thing. Women have been doing awesome shit since there was awesome shit to do, we’ve BEEN THERE, if anyone bothered to look.

Oh, they looked. And then maliciously and willfully erased us from the books to keep anyone else from “getting ideas.”

Hell, the first named author in history? Enheduanna, a Sumerian high priestess, poet and lyricist. She’s known as the Shakespeare of Sumerian literature.

gehayi:

youmightbeamisogynist:

naamahdarling:

mythosidhe:

Although I have to point out that there was a piece of speculative science fiction called The Blazing World published by one Margaret Cavendish, Duchess of Newcastle-upon-Tyne in 1666, slightly predating Mary Shelley.

This is the thing. Women have been doing awesome shit since there was awesome shit to do, we’ve BEEN THERE, if anyone bothered to look.

Oh, they looked. And then maliciously and willfully erased us from the books to keep anyone else from “getting ideas.”

Hell, the first named author in history? Enheduanna, a Sumerian high priestess, poet and lyricist. She’s known as the Shakespeare of Sumerian literature.

“Intimacy is not who you let touch your genitalia. Intimacy is who you text at 3am about your dreams and fears. Intimacy is giving someone your attention, when ten other people are asking for it. Intimacy is the person always in the back of your mind, no matter how distracted you are.”

– (via lildeviant)

They say the city of Rome
burned for six days and seven nights
while its emperor played the fiddle.

In my head, I call him ‘the Arsonist’.
He sets fire to the parts of me that are all wilderness,
all California dry bush. I don’t know how to tell him
I’ve stopped writing my poems down — all my words
about love just burn holes through the pages.

He hums in my ear and the heat of his breath
reduces me to kindling, to something
that sparks and ignites; I am sawdust,
I am a city full of libraries.
Thousands of books and scrolls
to keep me burning through the night.

I wasn’t always so flammable
but I suppose it’s something about his hands.
One part of me wants them at my hips,
around my throat. The other smells smoke.
She is cracking windows open,
she’s looking for a fire escape,
she wants to run.
But the rest of me wants to stay.

Even if he douses my body in kerosene.
Even if he leaves the firemen sifting through
my ashes for evidence.
Rome is burning to the ground tonight
and I’m trapped behind its walls.

Anita Ofokansi, ”Boy Who Coaxes Flames Out of My Skin (via deeplystained)