my cat just pulled a tampon out of the trash
i think it’s tasted human blood do i have to kill it
I like people and I like them to like me, but I wear my heart where God put it, on the inside.
“
| — | F. Scott Fitzgerald (via misswallflower) |
what am i supposed to do with this heart, how do i take it off, if i love it on, its like a work of art
“
| — | (via maymayella) |
Alright, so you want something sweet, refreshing, and isn’t made by coca-cola? Son, agua fresca is the fucking JAM. Look, all the shit you need is:
6 cups of fruit (I used cantaloupe, but you can use strawberries, pineapple, watermelon, etc)
1 cup of ice
3 cups of water
3 tablespoons of lime juice
3 tablespoons of agave or cane sugar
pinch of saltToss all that shit in a blender and zap it. Fucking done. Some people strain the blended fruit for pulp, which makes the consistency a bit more watery. Not me, I like some pulp in that shit. Every sip reminds me what I’m drinking isn’t gasoline.
Natural sugar is way better for you than that garbage they put in soda. No bitch, I don’t “wanta Fanta” go get the fuck on. Shit.
YES.
Typewriter Series #346 by Tyler Knott Gregson
Text below if it’s too tiny to see :)
“Should we swim in these sheets?
Should we float on the blankets and hold our breath
as the pillows crash on top of us?
Should we tear off these swimsuits and swim naked
under the waterfalls of our headboard?
Should we kiss under the whitewash of the down comforter
atop us and marvel at the light that decorates our faces
as it passes through all the places where the feathers
have shifted?
Should we dance on this mattress?
Should we waltz and two-step and tango on the sheets
stretched tight against the bed below us?
Should we spin and sway and dip and fall off the bed
into a pile of laughter and applause?
Should we dance under the spotlight of the moon and stars
and the audience of planets that orbit around us
and only us?
Should we paint each other with kisses?
Should we sketch with our fingertips on the canvases
of our bodies?
Should we work off the clay of our clothing and scrape
and mold and peel back the layers of life and time and ache
covering the people we were meant to be?
Should we be the artists and be the canvases and be
the paintbrushes and should our kisses
be the paint?
Should we burn our story into our skin?
Should we be the authors and the poets the writers
and the dreamers that give shape to the floating fragments
of all we have yet to do?
Should we give a voice to the silence lingering
between your skin and mine?
Should we close that space now once and for all
and watch the scattering of the words that make our story
when our chests collide?
Should we?
