Hello! Truth be told I have no idea how you ended up here, but welcome. I only have the one blog, which means it gets filled up with a lot of unrelated things. There will be numerous fandoms, posts about privilege and oppression, and lots and lots of pretty pictures. Frequently school gets in the way and this Tumblr goes dormant, and then break comes along and I queue up a flood of posts, so don't follow if you like your dash to be somewhat regular. I'm working on plans for a hobbit hole mansion that me and my friends will live in. If you have ever thought about your own dream-home, then pretty please will you tell me about it? I don't put up pictures or much biographical information about myself, but you can call me Sakura Nicole. Despite my name I am white, and I’m sorry if I ever misled anybody on that account, it would have been completely unintentional. Oh, and even though this blog may not always be active, I will always answer my asks, so that's open if you ever need to talk to someone or rant. P.S. I do occasionally put up personal posts, usually under a read more. I would never ask anybody to not read something I put out there publicly, but if I know you in person could you at least pretend you didn't read it? Please and Thank You.
10 HONEST THOUGHTS ON BEING LOVED BY A SKINNY BOY
I say, ‘I am fat.’
He says ‘No, you are beautiful.’
I wonder why I cannot be both.
He kisses me
My college theater professor once told me
that despite my talent,
I would never be cast as a romantic lead.
We do plays that involve singing animals
and children with the ability to fly,
but apparently no one
has enough willing suspension of disbelief
to go with anyone loving a fat girl.
I daydream regularly
about fucking my boyfriend vigorously on his front lawn.
On the mornings I do not feel pretty,
while he is still asleep,
I sit on the floor and check the pockets of his skinny jeans for motive,
for a punchline,
for other girls’ phone numbers.
When we hold hands in public,
I wonder if he notices the looks —
like he is handling a parade balloon on a crowded sidewalk;
if he notices that my hands are now made of rope.
Dear Cosmo: Fuck you.
I will not take sex tips from you
on how to please a man you think I do not deserve.
He tells me he loves me with the lights on.
I can cup his hip bone in my hand,
feel his ribs without pressing very hard at all.
He does not believe me when I tell him he is beautiful.
Sometimes I fear the day he does will be the day he leaves.
The cute hipster girl at the coffee shop
assumes we are just friends
and flirts over the counter.
I spend the next two weeks
mentally replacing myself with her
in all of our photographs.
When I admit this to him
we spend the evening taking new photos together.
He will not let me delete a single one of them.
The phrase “Big girls need love too” can die in a fire.
Fucking me does not require an asterisk.
Loving me is not a fetish.
Finding me beautiful is not a novelty.
I am not a fucking novelty.
I say, ‘I am fat.’
He says, ‘No. You are so much more’,
and kisses me
when they say that no one is coming to save you
they don’t mean that the world is a dark pit and you are trapped in endless night.
they mean that the boys who look for girls in the bukowski section of your used book store
are not boys who want you happy.
bukowski beat his women.
so did picasso.
so did gandhi.
throw away your idols. burn them like burning books, like the libraries of alexandria, like a city full to the brim with ignorance and new beginnings.
it is not that no one will kiss your scars
it is that you must push them away with all the strength in your brittle fingers, because boys who like only broken girls will break you again and again just to keep on loving you.
when they say that you are your own champion
it does not mean that you are weak
because you have not eaten for five days
because you look over tall buildings and wonder how many stories you’d have to jump
because you cannot be touched without permission, because you see things that are not there
call your therapist. tell them the truth.
call your parents. tell them what you need.
call your friends. tell them what you want.
call your lovers. tell them no.
when they say to save yourself
that your pain might be beautiful
but you are so much more.
i eat small trains for breakfast
i eat small brains
sometimes i confuse them
small trains become brains
because people live in trains
small trains for breakfast
Each time I’m asked to tell about myself, I find myself starting the same way: “My name is Kelsey and I’m nineteen..”
but what I’d really like to say is:
“My name means island of the ships but once
I found a translation that said I’m a burning shipwreck-
not a burning ship but a ship that has caught fire
after the wreckage and well, I’d say that’s more fitting.”
I’ve learned that people don’t have time for about me’s.
They need two things: a name and an indication you’re someone special.
The doctors, they want facts not details.
“I broke my leg when I was three, it’s a funny story actually-“
The right or the left?
The teachers, they want interests, hobbies.
You’re sad, yes, but what do you like to do?
The adults are a spew of questions.
What school do you go to? What classes are you taking?
What do you plan on becoming? Got a boyfriend?
People my own age are the worst.
“I’m planning on an English degree with a concentration in creative writing.”
Yeah, aren’t we all. So how many times have you, you know,
I’m pulled apart, my interests travelling highway 2
my goals at a stop light at traffic hour,
my medical history on a billboard for the world to see.
But what about me?
Where’s the chance to say,
“I hang on to fistfuls of poetry like loose change in my pockets,
and I keep waiting for the day that the world turns upside down
so I can swim with the stars.
I’m not afraid of darkness, it’s a loneliness I can empathize with it.
It’s the blackholes like cigarette burns inside of me that get troublesome.
I walk through graveyards and read the dashes between years,
each a story I’ll never know. Sometimes I create my own.”
No wonder none of us know who we are anymore.
Anything that has to deal with the tucking into the
spaces between fingers. Also, Don’t Fall Into Love With … poems. Seriously, I’ve been perusing tumblr writing and these two things are making me punch my wall. Beating a dead fucking horse, man.
don’t fall in love with
someone who doesn’t have spaces
between their fingers
because chances are
they are a frog
and if you kiss them
you will get
1. You have fallen in love with the wrong person again.
2. Remember that he is the cage and you are the animal. He is your failing grace and the freckle on your eyelid. A blemish on otherwise flawless skin. Smooth out your skirt and do not look at him.
3. When he calls, do not answer. When he texts, do not answer. Somewhere out there is The One, and you will miss him if you’re too busy lusting after the pulse of a man who doesn’t even worry when he hears that you’ve been crushed under the pressure of living.
4. Somewhere out there is a man willing to swallow your sadness whole. A man who would sew flower seeds into your front yard, plant a garden down your spine and speak galaxies to you.
5. You’ve hung his name up in lights on the red carpet in your mind. Take the sign down. Let it rust in the back alley of your gut.
6. List his faults in alphabetical order: Anger issues, bad posture, crooked teeth, dangerous, emotionally fragile, fake, greedy, helpless, like a child –
7. Remember what you told your mom? The last thing you need now is a child.
8. If he makes you cry more often than he makes you laugh, do not let him back into your bed.
9. Some day you will both be dead, and you are wasting your time now. Rip the letters he wrote you to shreds and flush the remainders down the toilet.
10. Braid bravery in between the lines of your poems. You are not the weak girl he fell for years ago. Remember: he doesn’t love you. Unglue your heart from his and move on.