I wanted someone to love me into existence.
Years later, that terrible sting, those evenings
when I let the wind embrace, water warm me
so something would, all the strange places
I crouched down curled up and cried,
and I am here
willed to exist by me
crying out for me.
Beyonce (via lovefromkate)
Writing this on my eyelids.
"But how is that friendly?"
Because once we stop covering it, once the public passes on to a new fad, we’re fucked. The police win. Michael Brown’s death will be nothing to billions of people again. It won’t mean a chance to fight anymore. We’ll have lost that.
WE CAN’T STOP COVERING THIS.