I'm an eighteen year old girl from London.
I shan't tell you any more.


"Bad books on writing tell you to ‘WRITE WHAT YOU KNOW’, a solemn and totally false adage that is the reason there exist so many mediocre novels about English professors contemplating adultery."
Joe Haldeman (via maxkirin)

(via mymbley)

Our friend skipped out on being stabbed last night because he’s so intoxicated with this new girl. Their honeymoon period might have saved his life- his housemates stare at hospital ceilings whilst he hides in her mother’s house. They’re going to wince around the presence of night-time crawlers, men that leer out of the shadows, but the worst ones will be doe-eyed boys in love because who can trust strangers when you’ve been tortured, when you were almost killed because he thought he could claim you. I barely knew those girls but they took a shine to me when we were high on firecrackers round your house. You boys all hid in a corner because they were bright and loud with thick Essex accents but they were the type who bonded with girl-brethren immediately so I found friendly faces. Now I can’t stop thinking of your lounge covered with blood. We ate Indian takeaway there just a couple of weeks ago, the glass table heaving with our binge-food. I wonder if the glass was smashed. I wonder what he used to pierce their skin, how deep he got before they escaped. Escaped from their own home. These things don’t happen in real life. 

"My parents cannot afford to pay the rent
and all I care about is that my friends
are falling in love with each other.
I think often about having an affair
with a married man, how easy it would be
to lay beneath someone else’s sweaty
husband as he tells me I taste exactly
like the eighty dollar bottle of champagne
he bought for us at dinner. Maybe I would
email his wife in the morning, after he’s
gone to work or to the gym, and tell her
how nice her sheets are, that I hope she
can taste me on his lips when he kisses
her hello. Is this too honest? Did you know
that if you draw straight lines around
your heart, they form a triangle? I can’t
always afford lipstick so instead I will sit
at my kitchen table with a bag of cherries
and a knife. There was a man on the bus
who asked to see my breasts and I hesitated
before saying no. I guess some things you
should keep to yourself.
Kristina Haynes, “I Do Not Always Name My Poems” (via fleurishes)

(via 52tavistocksquare)

If (Kaytranada Remix)

by Janet Jackson

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