For too damn long, I’ve apologized to the men I’ve loved, for not being THAT pretty. For not being THAT skinny. For not being THIS, for not being THAT. I’ve said, “I’m sorry I’m not good enough.” Since the age of thirteen, like I say my name, it’s become the default of the question, “who are you?” I am so tired of beating myself up, tearing myself down. My body is not a goddamn temple, it’s the house I grew up in. I don’t know why I keep trying to burn it down.
(Source: , via andrewwrichard)
When I like you this is me.
Writing is…. being able to take something whole and fiercely alive that exists inside you in some unknowable combination of thought, feeling, physicality, and spirit, and to then store it like a genie in tense, tiny black symbols on a calm white page. If the wrong reader comes across the words, they will remain just words. But for the right readers, your vision blooms off the page and is absorbed into their minds like smoke, where it will re-form, whole and alive, fully adapted to its new environment.
—Mary Gaitskill (via observando)