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It’s not that I don’t love you. It’s the sound I heard when I was 9 and my father slammed the front door so hard behind him I swear to god it shook the whole house. For the next 3 years I watched my mother break her teeth on vodka bottles. I think she stopped breathing when he left. I think part of her died. I think he took her heart with him when he walked out. Her chest is empty, just a shattered mess or cracked ribs and depression pills.

It’s not that I don’t love you. It’s all the blood in the sink. It’s the night that I spent 12 hours in the emergency room waiting to see if my sister was going to be okay, after the boy she loved, told her he didn’t love her anymore. It’s the crying, and the fluorescent lights, and white sneakers and pale faces and shaky breaths and blood. So much blood.

It’s not that I don’t love you. It’s the time that I had to stay up for two days straight with my best friend while she cried and shrieked and threw up on my bedroom floor because her boyfriend fucked his ex. I swear to god she still has tear streaks stained onto her cheeks. I think when you love someone, it never really goes away.

It’s not that I don’t love you. It’s the six weeks we had a substitute in English because our teacher was getting divorced and couldn’t handle getting out of bed. When she came back she was smiling. But her hands shook so hard when she held her coffee, you could see that something was broken inside. And sometimes when things break, you can’t fix them. Nothing ever goes back to how it was. I got an A in English that year. I think her head was always spinning too hard to read any essays.

It’s not that I don’t love you. It’s that I do.

It’s not that I don’t love you.    (via jaguarz)

(Source: extrasad)


     He used to flinch as I pruned myself- who pours boiling oil down their own ramparts? But my blossom bruises needed watering somehow. My scar-streaked body was barely worthy enough to be an object. A chair. A vase. A frame.
      One drunken night he shouted, “You’ve made me want you and now I’m fucking weak! I fucking hate you for it!! I hate you because you could be phenomenal, and you’re fucking wasting it by giving yourself to everyone!!!” 
      With a fistful of hair he dragged me to the wall and threw me against it, and as my temples flared with hot throbbing, a virgin fear germinated and fevered my mind; a foreign shame I had never before allowed through security. 
      We both broke down on the side of our sex. I sobbed like a child until his shoulder was salty; soaked. My masochistic ache for brutality had been satiated, but that night for the first time, tear-stained in his lap, I allowed myself to indulge in the light-side-of-the-moon fantasies I’d stifled; trampled. For the first time, I granted resurrection to the faint ghost desires locked away in ancient crypts. 
      Spank me, choke me, hit me, restrain me- I’ll come for you once. Cuddle me, tuck me in, kiss my forehead, bring my rabbit stuffie- I’ll come twice and thrice from the long-denied tenderness, from that softly erotic touch I’d thought too gentle to deserve. 
♡  http://relax-enjoythepain.tumblr.com/ ♡
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     He used to flinch as I pruned myself- who pours boiling oil down their own ramparts? But my blossom bruises needed watering somehow. My scar-streaked body was barely worthy enough to be an object. A chair. A vase. A frame.

      One drunken night he shouted, “You’ve made me want you and now I’m fucking weak! I fucking hate you for it!! I hate you because you could be phenomenal, and you’re fucking wasting it by giving yourself to everyone!!!”

      With a fistful of hair he dragged me to the wall and threw me against it, and as my temples flared with hot throbbing, a virgin fear germinated and fevered my mind; a foreign shame I had never before allowed through security.

      We both broke down on the side of our sex. I sobbed like a child until his shoulder was salty; soaked. My masochistic ache for brutality had been satiated, but that night for the first time, tear-stained in his lap, I allowed myself to indulge in the light-side-of-the-moon fantasies I’d stifled; trampled. For the first time, I granted resurrection to the faint ghost desires locked away in ancient crypts.

      Spank me, choke me, hit me, restrain me- I’ll come for you once. Cuddle me, tuck me in, kiss my forehead, bring my rabbit stuffie- I’ll come twice and thrice from the long-denied tenderness, from that softly erotic touch I’d thought too gentle to deserve.

♡  http://relax-enjoythepain.tumblr.com/

jellyfishandpug:

queenglossophile:

maskedlinguist:

strawwolf:

achipandachair:

sushinfood:

"Weird Al" Yankovic does it again with his newest parody "Word Crimes"

this is great.

I can finally enjoy this tune without Robin Thicke

Thank the gods for Weird Al

As much as I can be against prescriptivism, I can’t help but love this.

Especially because I agree with the above comment; fuck the disgusting original lyrics.

I will argue the ex/es-presso issue every time (both “ex” and “es” are the the same prefix in Latin and modern Italian, sooo…what does it matter…) and I will join the anti-prescriptivists…but honestly I adore this video. A lot.

Same. I love it. All songs with gross rape-y lyrics should be changed into songs about language.

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