a secret code between women: are you safe? in a contact of eyes. i’m here if you need me, the littlest shift of a skirt, of an inclined head, of watching the man who is asking you to smile, bitch. you aren’t alone on the walls of restrooms, i was where you are too. the quiet doling of emergency numbers, the shelters. the space between two women in a largely empty train station. the waiting game of two women strangers who walk, quietly and quickly, to their cars in abandoned parking lots, who watch to be sure the other leaves safely. text me you get home safe. the tally marks of drinks on hidden wrists, carefully disguised as other things ever since men picked up on what it meant and used it to target the “weakest link.”
my father tells me we have nothing to worry about. last night he sent me one of those email chains that say at the top “Safety Tips For The Women In Your Life!!!! Don’t Let Her Die!!”
me, and the stranger on the train. she is asleep and the man is asking me who i am going home to. i feel tears pricking the sides of my eyes. i am 13 while he towers over me. he reaches out one hand, and while i don’t know how she knows, she speaks up without opening her eyes: “If you touch my daughter, sir, I will murder you.” Whatever he grumbles is lost in history, because this moment I am so grateful for the existence of other people that I cannot breathe.
I am 19 and on my phone when i become aware of a 13 year old girl is smiling nervously at a man who’s saying disgusting things. I grab her arm. “There you are, cindy,” I say, and then look at the man like he is bile. “Do you need something from my sister?” i ask, and i walk away with her. she cries later.
this is the way of things: a silent, secret web. our promise to each other that despite our differences, when it comes to the wire, we become family, instantly. the unspoken promise. i’m here. i’m watching. i’ll witness.
“get your facts straight”
why not get your facts gay u homophobic piece of shit
I don’t understand people that use judgement and criticism to somehow get the results they want. Like parents who tell their children that they are living in a sty and it’s filthy and disgusting and all that stuff. Does that sound motivating to you? It’s like “Oh. Thank you for taking a shit on my existence. I absolutely want to clean it now.”
Why can’t more people be like “Hey, I’ve noticed you’re living in squalor. Are you depressed?” or even better like “You know, honey, you always feel more motivated and happier when your room is clean. Want to spend some time doing that? We can go to lunch later if you get it done this morning.”
I mean like… that sounds awesome, right? Compliments? LUNCH??? I’m game. I trick myself with rewards all the time. For instance, right now I just finished breaking down a bunch of boxes for recycling. You know what my reward was? Writing this!
Anywho. Brain thoughts.
i love tumblr artists
cause on the actual post under the art there’ll be something written like “look at my new cute drawing!” or something related to the drawing in a e s t h e t i c text to make it look cool and everything seems all professional,
then you get to the tags and its like #kill me #i almost shoved my pencil into my eye on 87 occasions #fuck art #dont touch me
Reblog and I’ll send you a personalised meanspo.
* Note this will be anonymous because this is a side-blog.
** I will briefly look through your blog posts, attempt to guess what your weaknesses are and send you meanspo based on that.
***This will probably include a lot of swearing and insults. Don’t reblog if you’re not prepared for that.
( D-A-T blog )