Rose M. Welch

I'm a tattooed nerd girl, an art ninja, a pool hall junkie, a gamer, a news addict, a student, skeptic, and smartass, a polymathic autodidact, and an international zombie-killing rockstar.

http://www.pinterest.com/pin/268104984037634914/

“I want to stain your lips with my name
So even if years later we aren’t kissing each other,
Girls will still taste the love we had.”

We live in a society that’s sexist in ways it doesn’t understand. One of the consequences is that men are extremely sensitive to being criticized by women. I think it threatens them in a very primal way, and male privilege makes them feel free to lash out.

This is why women are socialized to carefully dance around these issues, disagreeing with men in an extremely gentle manner. Not because women are nicer creatures than men. But because our very survival can depend on it.

—   

No skin thick enough: The daily harassment of women in the game industry

The whole article sadly hits very close to home.

(via rosalarian)

(via becauseiamawoman)

“This is the kind of love poem that gets dirty —
I want to say I’d take you out to dinner, runs my toes over your ankle under the five-star tablecloth, but I’d actually just drive you to the highest cliff I could and shove my fingers in your mouth. I’d love you so hard you bruised from it, moaned into me that you wanted more. We’d find the kind of motel that people don’t use for anything else, fuck five times on a mattress that has seen thousands of lovers like us, bleeding over its sheets. You’d pretend not to know my name and, God, look at this — I am volatile for you, all fingernails and bent knees. Nothing about it would be tender, I’d be a gut wound and you wouldn’t even mind.
This isn’t the kind of love poem that promises anything permanent, this is the kind of love poem that says that I want to tear you apart just for the hell of it, want you naked, want you trembling. This is the kind of poem you don’t tell your parents about, go home the next morning with my name bruised onto your thigh, don’t speak of how we set the world on fire and clung together as it burned.
This is a dirty poem about the ways I would love you deep, like a disease. This is a dirty poem about how we leave ourselves in ruins. This is a dirty poem about the ashes of the war.”

—   This is a Dirty Poem | d.a.s (via backshelfpoet)