There are two types of waiting. There’s the the waiting you do for something you know is coming, sooner or later—like waiting for the 6:28 train, or the school bus, or a party where a certain handsome boy might be. And then there’s the waiting for something you don’t know is coming. You don’t even know what it is exactly, but you’re hoping for it. You’re imagining it and living your life for it. That’s the kind of waiting that makes a fist in your heart.
Unknown (via sexclution)
I am not a graceful person. I am not a Sunday morning or a Friday sunset. I am a Tuesday 2am, I am gunshots muffled by a few city blocks, I am a broken window during February. My bones crack on a nightly basis. I fall from elegance with a dull thud, and I apologize for my awkward sadness. I sometimes believe that I don’t belong around people, that I belong to all the leap days that didn’t happen. The way light and darkness mix under my skin has become a storm. You don’t see the lightning, but you hear the echoes.
Anna Peters
(via wordsnquotes)
stop telling black girls that they need to flat iron their hair straight for certain events like a prom or something formal. stop telling black girls that their natural hair in its natural state can’t be formal or professional.
We’re not in love, but I make love to you.
Frank Ocean (via differentstuffsdaily)
When I’m disrespected and I cut all ties with the person, they no longer have access to the raw, devoted, encouraging, compassionate or loving side of me. Nah the ‘me’ they have access to now is reserved, restricted, unfamiliar, uninterested and unbothered.
