Detail of Rochefort’s Escape, by Édouard Manet.


Pixies - Here Comes Your Man

(Source: jimmyeppley, via somethinginbloom)

People don’t wanna be compared to the teenage girl; the teenage girl is hated, teenage girls hate themselves. If you listen to a certain kind of music, or if you express your emotions in a certain kind of way, if you self harm, you write diaries, all those kind of activities are sort of laughed at and ridiculed because they’re associated with being a teenage girl. Even just things like being cripplingly self conscious or overly concerned with our appearance, that’s considered like a teenage girl thing and therefore its ridiculous, it’s stupid, it’s not relevant or legitimate, and you know, what we needed at that age was legitimisation and respect and support but all we got was dismissal and “oh you’re such a teenage girl.”
by Feminism, Education, and the plight of the teenage girl  (via albinwonderland)

(Source: lesbolution, via gowns)



In the dark desert moonlight with our sleeping bags huddled together like the cocoons of moths you whispered You feel things so deeply and here I sit wondering why my voice is never strong when I need it to be, why my voice wavers when I need to hide behind it, tell you I’m okay tell you I’m not okay. And I’m wondering how you realized something so important about myself that I had never known. And part of me resents you for it, because now I’ll be searching for someone who could do the same. 

The boy and me ready for Drag Ball

Gustave Caillebotte - Cliffs by the Sea at Trouville


Electric Six - Gay Bar

(via lordmiles)

How many slams in an old screen door? Depends how loud you shut it. How many slices in a bread? Depends how thin you cut it. How much good inside a day? Depends how good you live ‘em. How much love inside a friend? Depends how much you give ‘em.
by  Shel Silverstein (via feellng)

(via fightclubfoot)


Sun and Moon

(via winnielaroux)

You may write me down in history
With your bitter, twisted lies,
You may trod me in the very dirt
But still, like dust, I’ll rise.
by Maya Angelou (via pifty)

(Source: observando, via polythenepamm)