Telling a young girl she can’t wear what she wants because it’s not appropriate encourages the idea that men’s reactions should dictate society’s norms, and that all women are meta-Eves, tempting and ensnaring men with our sultry-eyed gaze. My parents’ culture is steeped in patriarchy, in the philosophy of the one-step machismo machine, where there is just one kind of man, and two kinds of women: the angel and the whore. These limited ideas of masculinity breed men who want ownership of women.
Fariha Roison (via coffeekaling)
another breath ›


Here he is-
a boy, with youth still tugging at the corners
of his lips, his laugh still sounding the same as
it did when it ricocheted off the metal poles of the
jungle gym.

This is a photograph of him,
I explained to my hair dresser,
he with the thin nervous wrists
and long mangy hair.

I see your faces behind my eyelids before I fall asleep. ›


People always say to “be who you are”,
but I’ve lost friends by being honest
and been told I was cool when I lied about
enjoying something.
Boys have declared that they liked me 
when they didn’t know the first thing about me,
and stopped responding to me when I asked
too many questions.
Those who once said they loved every part of me 
have slipped out the door when they caught me
blubbering about being sad.

When I was a child,
I often felt alone in my own family.
I was too sensitive-
always running to my room hungry
and sobbing in the bathroom when something didn’t go as I planned.
I used to think that because I felt like an outsider
with those that had known me since birth,
no one in the world would ever be able to truly love me 
once they found out who I was.

And though I’ve learned to accept myself these past few years,
I still sometimes feel the tug of that old fear, late at night,
reminding me, with memories of everyone who has run away from me, 
that it might be true.

i am taught to scream “fire” when
a man grabs my wrists because i
have a bigger chance of getting
help than if i were to yell “rape”,
i am taught to keep my mouth shut
when a boy with bruised knuckles
whistles at me, i am taught long
sleeves in school, to hide my knee’s:
the threshold of my thighs, i am taught
short skirts and to wear cigarette burns
as punishments, i am taught to hold my
tongue in the palms of my brain, i am
taught to shut up, swallow my words,
chew my lipstick, speak when i am told,
i am taught to scream “fire” when a man
grabs my wrists, but he is never taught
my sister eats acid  (via irynka)