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in-between love


(Source: bambsies, via totemtea)


sade - bullet proof soul

one of my favourite sade songs of always. 

it wasn’t sadness that got to her, you couldn’t compare it on a spectrum of unhappiness, it was something darker than that - heavier, thicker. it was like the sky before a thunderstorm, holding everything hostage with no beginning or ending in sight. 

today I’m just celebrating I was able to get out of bed and make it through the day to make it back to my bed.

today I’m just celebrating I was able to get out of bed and make it through the day to make it back to my bed.

"There are all kinds of love in this world but never the same love twice."
-F. Scott Fitzgerald (via larmoyante)

(via relajada)

there was a time I was a care free brown girl and my brother was my homie.

there was a time I was a care free brown girl and my brother was my homie.

"Loving someone
who hates themselves
is a special kind of violence,
a fight inside the bones,
a war within the blood."


Yrsa Daley-Ward, ‘bone.’

now available at

(via yrsadaleyward)

(via yrsadaleyward)

been trying to centre myself/prioritise my mental health/wellbeing/spirit this week to realise how many things we can do to self-harm/punish ourselves when we do not love ourselves or see ourselves worthy of even our own kindness and care. there are times i feel like as imperfect and flawed as i am i’ve worked on becoming someone i want to be and yet simultaneously do these destructive things that remind me that even now i can hate myself in a way i had never done so before. it’s a battle to constantly want to be and do better, especially when doing work that is justice/equality/love as a political praxis focused. it can take a lot out of you and the pressure to build meaningfully can really have serious strain when you’re trying to do healing work on yourself too but don’t feel worthy of it because there is shit out there is so much weightier. i feel like sometimes i’ve not been fully honest or been courageous enough to confront my own mental health that for the past few years in light of a number of things has really at times brought me into lows i had never experienced or hadn’t experienced since i was a child - that i’d sometimes label as a kind of growing pain. at the beginning of the week i had to say to myself for the first time that like i believe others are worthy and deserving, i too am, that i have to be better to and for myself. sometimes i wonder if self-harm in its many forms for those of who are politically active particularly in a system of so many constraints is not jus reflective of the personal traumas we experience but the real strain and weight of carrying the traumas of others in justice work? maybe? i don’t know…

  1. you are like scaffolding, my love: holding up things that are were destined to have collapsed. 
  2. i think of your body as a measure of perimeters and grow lonely. how strange a thing it was to think of you as both body and ghost, and now you are memory i have no name for. 
  3. when he thinks of his voice over things like the rain or a train running through the city or his father beating his mother and the silence, good god the silence is a welcomed triumph. 
  4. your ex girlfriend is drinking too much and flirting between you and a boy and you take to the wine because anywhere and here you are meant to be almost but not quite but always and barely there. your bodies touched once.
  5. i would have drawn it out this long, i would have done more than made a poem out of you but you little boy are a haiku for the winters i grew out of myself into a woman. and sure maybe then and now i think of you as the lie i have told myself in the breath of many. 
  6. you try to think of all the reasons you should stay like how maybe he wears good shoes or matching socks and doesn’t lose them in the wash or even how his hands are elegant even though they are large and he has a shade of brown that wishes kashmir had never taken so much of the south indian out of you yet nothing is ever reason enough to stay. everything has been fleeting and as temporary as both your happiness and sadness, like the borders you have come to forgive, as never being yours. 
  7. 'look,' you tell him, 'this whole universe is made up of so much dark matter that what good is it if we give up so much to a whiteness our melanin can swallow up into nothing? what good is it if we keep chasing whiteness like stars when they were born and die out of us?' and you do a smart thing in that moment like hand both a map of the galaxy and a body and ask him to compare the details of what will only save you in the end. 
  8. he listens, he tries so hard to listen, to follow the spirit and urgency of what you’re saying but he leaves and goes back to what he knows best. you laugh the kind of laughter that has a residual stain about it because when it comes down to it some people will only think skin failed them down to the beloved. 
  9. and he’s looking at you telling you about love and all you can think about is you suddenly don’t know the way home. you’re fishing around for the map you swore you brought with you, that has your name and address and even an emergency kit that tells you how to put it all back together just in case and the directions to leave important things behind when you begin to believe them. you lose your voice and even your eyes in this pool of soft that is not yours. so what part of you is now left of the moon, of the thing that is just today’s ocean and tomorrow’s drought? of you, a body and a body alone. 


strolling - by a short film by cecile emeke featuring bekke

(via cecileemeke)


Since 1980, 3000 native Canadian women have been murdered/gone missing. Indigenous women are five times more likely than other women to die as a result of violence. Sixty percent of known perpetrators are white men.

Justice for all Indigenous Women! by Jessica Sabogal | Montréal


At the edge of things, mainly myself. Where now?

Anonymous:   Is there any other of convincing them-man besides using your body?

i think so, i hope so, i pray so, i’m trying for more than this now. 

Anonymous:   I read your words, your wonder, and I can't help but daydream about how we'd meet. Maybe I'd be seated at a park bench and see you running as I imagine you do - with Amy singing her saudade into your ears. Or perhaps I'd see you at the corner shop, recognise all the magic in the green in your eyes and not know what the fuck else to say but "hello, love".