come back, come back to me

(Source: mrsstreep, via vrtoglavicazanosa)

70years:

Michael Dumontier and Neil Farber

70years:

Michael Dumontier and Neil Farber

I’ve already lost count of how many times I’ve watched Beyoncé’s VMA perfomance

bosxe:

perfectvic:

LITERALLY MY FAVORITE

This is so much better than any russian roulette or “poison cookie” analogy.

bosxe:

perfectvic:

LITERALLY MY FAVORITE

This is so much better than any russian roulette or “poison cookie” analogy.

(Source: punkypunk, via bitter-feminist)

Reblog if it’s okay to start talking to you.

(Source: pokiha, via prettypeggy-o)

definitelydope:

Wicked Women
By Anny Miner

Chapter 4 - Isabelle

She was daughter to the moon, born with stars as freckles and found dancing with the trees. When a man tried to comb the wild out of her hair and wash the bark off her skin she called the wolves, she sent the vultures, she watched as he was consumed alive organ by organ, asked him, “How dare you try to chop my Amazon into fire wood for your own warmth?”

My mother is full of these fairy tales. She read them to me each night hoping I would grow up believing in the power of my own magic, said I was born as bonfire chasing circles during the witching hour. I come from a long line of wicked women. But they do not need voodoo dolls or magic spells; instead go straight for the throat.

Isabelle was my great grandmother who fed her husband ground glass instead of sugar and watched him die because she was sick of how bourbon made him mistake her for prey.

My grandmother Marie went through her husband’s savings and bought herself a diamond ring when he spent Christmas inside another woman.

And my mother’s story is still a family secret. I will not tell you in case my father is ever listening.

I am the next chapter. Yet I still accepted the boy’s fists as if each were a rose and I was a garden and needed some color. When he left finger prints on my arms like thin ice over dark pools I pull my long sleeve shirts out of winter storage and clung to his next morning apologies as if they could calm the swelling.

When he told me all the places he could hide my body, I drew my diary into a treasure map awaiting an X and a dotted red line.

When he broke into my house I spoke quietly as to not trespass on his temper, afraid that one more rose would tip the bouquet and spill them all across my face. Afraid that no one would find my bones until the snow melted in Spring.

When I look at my hands I wonder how I did not inherit their brass knuckles. I pray these fists were something they had to grow into also.

I still believe in magic. I’ve heard a whisper to summon the southern winds. The wicked women are telling me that hurricanes are named after humans for a reason. I am not making pacts with the devil. I am telling him you are not welcome here anymore.

Last night I put on my grandmother’s Christmas ring, studied the design it would leave if it ever collided with skin, and noticed how it fit my finger perfectly.

The metal began to sweat, as if a storm was coming.

(Source: youtube.com)

thebikeage:

@prettypeggy-o

♥ thebikeage ♥

thebikeage:

@prettypeggy-o

thebikeage

(Source: fttw)

shinybeetle:

Basim Magdy, 13 Essential Rules for Understanding the World, 2011

(via alien-femme)

vjeranski:

Ryan Bubnis 
Heads Make a Mountain drawing

vjeranski:

Ryan Bubnis 

Heads Make a Mountain drawing

(via nothingelsefills)


Pandora by Jules Joseph Lefebvre (1836-1911)
oil on canvas, 1882

Pandora by Jules Joseph Lefebvre (1836-1911)

oil on canvas, 1882

(Source: paintingses, via the-wolf-and-the-mockingbird)