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The problem is that white people see racism as conscious hate, when racism is bigger than that. Racism is a complex system of social and political levers and pulleys set up generations ago to continue working on the behalf of whites at other people’s expense, whether whites know/like it or not. Racism is an insidious cultural disease. It is so insidious that it doesn’t care if you are a white person who likes black people; it’s still going to find a way to infect how you deal with people who don’t look like you. Yes, racism looks like hate, but hate is just one manifestation. Privilege is another. Access is another. Ignorance is another. Apathy is another. And so on. So while I agree with people who say no one is born racist, it remains a powerful system that we’re immediately born into. It’s like being born into air: you take it in as soon as you breathe. It’s not a cold that you can get over. There is no anti-racist certification class. It’s a set of socioeconomic traps and cultural values that are fired up every time we interact with the world. It is a thing you have to keep scooping out of the boat of your life to keep from drowning in it. I know it’s hard work, but it’s the price you pay for owning everything.
Scott Woods (via newwavefeminism)


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"I want to fight in a  s h i e l d   w a l l.  I want to be like l a g e r t h a .”







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fairestcharming:

It’s not easy being in charge, is it? It’s hard running things.





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home now (you just don’t realize)

here’s what I remember, as I remember it:
poetry caught in the jaws of my locker, fluttering in the warm breeze of the heating vent.
worn leather and the smell of gasoline in a swirl of white, snowflakes as big as ‘eat me’ cakes, urging me to grow up.
your fingers at the end of my ponytail, twirling. twisting.

here’s what I remember: his hands are rough.
I’m pressed thin against the sheets, his hot breath at my ear doing nothing to iron out the creases being created.
it hurts, and it’s over.

I’m living out the lives of all the people before me,
there but for the grace of God, go I whispered as my back is turned.
it tastes like betrayal.

here’s what I remember, as I remember it:
you, on your knee, living out the lives of all the people before you.
you, paying for the sins of our fathers.
you, a body of water loving a girl who never learned to swim.
I save you the only way I know how.

here’s what I remember: his face is smiling.
but I’m pressed too thin, so my lighter is hot against the alcohol-soaked socket before the plate is screwed carefully into place.
it burns, and it’s over.

here’s what I remember, exactly as it happened:
your eyes, opening green against the blue of the sky as you break the surface.
the curve of your lips as you take that first deep breath, water droplets dancing along your lashes.
they sparkle like broken year-old promises, their shards slicing open our hands as we rebuild what has been damaged,
our blood intermingling as we are finally broken enough to want to heal.



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I’m the end of a Hitchcock movie: a little dark and a lot confusing
— Matt Nathanson, Mission Bells


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Yo ho, yo ho. A pirate’s life for me.



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wolfwrecked:

I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead;(I think I made you up inside my head.)



© T H E M E