Steady, As I Go



Untitled

the life and times of taara k









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klammer


therumpus:

The Rumblr’s in-house astrologer, Madame Clairevoyant, presents her latest dispatch from the stars:
Libra: This week, when you don’t know what to do or when you don’t know where you’re going, try to let yourself be moved by desire. Let the things that you want map out your way; let them light up the path. It can be hard to want so much, but the wanting can guide you. The wanting can fuel you if you don’t hide from it, if you don’t keep it locked up. Let your thoughts wander and keep your heart open. Try to remember your wildest good dreams.

therumpus:

The Rumblr’s in-house astrologer, Madame Clairevoyant, presents her latest dispatch from the stars:

Libra: This week, when you don’t know what to do or when you don’t know where you’re going, try to let yourself be moved by desire. Let the things that you want map out your way; let them light up the path. It can be hard to want so much, but the wanting can guide you. The wanting can fuel you if you don’t hide from it, if you don’t keep it locked up. Let your thoughts wander and keep your heart open. Try to remember your wildest good dreams.


For a few months when I was eighteen I was having sex with someone who had faded scars all up and down his arms, small short scars from a knife, maybe a razor blade. I would look at them when he wore t-shirts and I would look at them when we were naked and I wanted to run my fingers along every single one. I touched them a few times, but always lightly, like I didn’t mean it. I don’t know, I thought I’d embarrass him. For a few months when I was nineteen I was having sex with someone with little stretch marks all over his shoulders and chest and stomach and I wanted to stare at them but I tried not to; I wanted to touch them but I was scared to make him feel strange in his body. Later that same year I had sex just once with someone who I met on the bus back home from school, who had straight blond hair and tattoos on his calves and no scars at all on his body. He bought me some beers at the bar out past the mall, then brought me back to his place where he put his hand around my throat and laughed and laughed. I stayed the night anyway, then left his house early in the morning and walked all the way home down Loudon Road and over the river, wondering how close I’d just come to dying, making a list in my head of what the pros and cons would’ve been.

Ungrateful Skin by Claire Comstock-Gay | Two Serious Ladies

A very important melty, hurty, yearnful story by our own Claire Comstock-Gay, who you may better know as Madame Clairevoyant. This is her first published piece of fiction!

(via therumpus)

I fucking love this. It’s fucking perfect. 



The Wild Youth

    The waiter kept coming over to pour more water in our glasses, even when we didn’t need our glasses refilled. I was crying, but I felt good, lighter each time my eyes welled, grateful when he took my hand from across the table. I’m the quintessential free spirit, he said. That’s why we fell in love, I reminded him. We both took sips of water, me looking at him, him looking out the window. 

    I need something to wrap my own spirit around. I need something to hold onto as I build my world in this city, as I become something different than I am. 

    I can’t change, he said, as if he could hear the words moving from my chest into my throat. I can’t depend on you, I agreed. The waiter came back with more water, embarrassed when he noticed our eyes. 

09:35 pm, by taara2 notes

killersbabe:

amandy-chan:

You don’t know true frustration until you’ve dug several times through a pile of black clothing, in order to find a SPECIFIC article of black clothing.

 x

look, im not alone





hadeiadel:

In memory of kids slaughtered in Gaza beach.  Graffiti in Tehran, Iran.

hadeiadel:

In memory of kids slaughtered in Gaza beach.
Graffiti in Tehran, Iran.


bvckies:

Dancer with a Bouquet of Flowers, Edgar Degas (detail)
HBD, Degas.

I wrote a poem about this painting once. I wish I kept things.

bvckies:

Dancer with a Bouquet of Flowers, Edgar Degas (detail)

HBD, Degas.

I wrote a poem about this painting once. I wish I kept things.


papermagazine:

This never gets old.

(Source: mlkovich)



Maturing is realizing how many things don’t require your comment.
Rachel Wolchin (via cherrylet)

(Source: fellinlovewithmelancholy)