Hi there, my name is Yvonne. I'm sixteen years old and I'm a pansexual Satanist. I love art in any form, but have a passion for paintings and ceramics. Will tag anything gore or depression related, so don't worry loves. Bitte aufwachen.

 

angriestprincess:

I don’t feel valued or respected and I hate feeling brushed off this is why I don’t like being open to people sometimes.

-sharkbites:

houseofalexzander:

Lustrous.

A man in the grocery store line today approached me and said, “Sir, when I first saw you I was extremely attracted to you, but then I noticed that you are a boy. How… I mean, why do you dress so provocatively?”

I responded, “Well, in today’s world the majority of the straight male race view women as objects, or something that belongs to them. I dress provocatively because it attracts the attention of men in a sexual and OBJECTIVE way. However, when realized that I am actually male, they often become confused, disgusted, upset or all of the above. By inflicting this minor emotional damaged upon the ego of a man raised by twisted societal gender norms, maybe, just maybe the individual will think twice before viewing another woman with an objective attitude and sense of belonging. No woman, belongs to ANYONE. Male or female, the equality of human beings needs to be a priority. It is something worth dressing up for.”

I AM NOT KIDDING. The woman behind me, the female cashier, the old lady bagging groceries and the woman in front of me who was talking on the phone STOPPED, …. and proceeded to gasp and clap. The man shook my hand, told me to have a blessed day and then said, “excuse me ladies, I need to visit my daughter.”

…. I was shaking by the time I walked out of the store.

- Elliott Alexzander

I REALLY love this person.

I want to be the last person who ever kisses you. That sounds bad, like a death threat or something. What I’m trying to say is, you’re it. This is it for me.

Eleanor & Park, Rainbow Rowell  (via fawun)

(Source: higgitusfiggitus)

It’s not that I don’t love you. It’s the sound I heard when I was 9 and my father slammed the front door so hard behind him I swear to god it shook the whole house. For the next 3 years I watched my mother break her teeth on vodka bottles. I think she stopped breathing when he left. I think part of her died. I think he took her heart with him when he walked out. Her chest is empty, just a shattered mess or cracked ribs and depression pills.

It’s not that I don’t love you. It’s all the blood in the sink. It’s the night that I spent 12 hours in the emergency room waiting to see if my sister was going to be okay, after the boy she loved, told her he didn’t love her anymore. It’s the crying, and the fluorescent lights, and white sneakers and pale faces and shaky breaths and blood. So much blood.

It’s not that I don’t love you. It’s the time that I had to stay up for two days straight with my best friend while she cried and shrieked and threw up on my bedroom floor because her boyfriend fucked his ex. I swear to god she still has tear streaks stained onto her cheeks. I think when you love someone, it never really goes away.

It’s not that I don’t love you. It’s the six weeks we had a substitute in English because our teacher was getting divorced and couldn’t handle getting out of bed. When she came back was smiling. But her hands shook so hard when she held her coffee, you could see that something was broken inside. And sometimes when things break, you can’t fix them. Nothing ever goes back to how it was. I got an A in English that year. I think her head was always spinning too hard to read any essays.

It’s not that I don’t love you. It’s that I do.

(via euphoriclifetime)

(Source: extrasad)