The funny thing about humans is their sense of invincibility. You don’t buckle your seat or you skip a meal and laugh it off and think you will be fine but then you self-destruct every time somebody looks at you the wrong way or a group of girls laugh at the exact moment when you walk by. You break your leg and know that you will heal but then you break your heart and suddenly the world has collapsed. You fail that course in high school and shrug because you can take it again but then you fall short of the expectations you set for yourself and told nobody about and you think this is it for you. The funny thing about humans is their sense of invincibility because it seems that it is only okay to be hurt when we get to decide what hurts us.
—  i was asking if you felt alright (K.P.K)

When I was about nine years old,
I wanted to be a boy.

In my mind, boys had everything.
Boys had it easy. Boys had it made.

I didn’t get along very well with
other girls because I would
rather be covered in mud than
in makeup. I would rather
skin knees than stab backs.
Boys ran their mouths and
ran the school while my
patience ran a little bit thin.
But that’s not what girls did.
Girls kept pretty and girls
kept quiet and girls kept
themselves together.

When I was about nine years old,
I realized the biggest difference
between boys and girls to me
was that boys never seemed
to think before they spoke
and I would watch girls
swallow their words like
they were pills made
for horses.

But to boys, there was more
than just that. There was
something in them that
told them girls were weak,
when all I could see was the
strength seeping out of their
pores as they bit the strongest
muscle in their body until it bled.
There was something in
them that told them
girls were worse, when
all I could see was every girl
in a race to better themselves
before the ideal image
of a perfect girl changed
once again.

Even at nine years old,
there was nothing better to me,
than girls.

But I wanted to be a boy, I think,
only because I wanted, just once,
to be picked first to play ball,
to show them I could run just as fast,
kick just as hard,
win just as fiercely.

I wanted to prove myself,
as a girl, that I could be everything
a boy was,
and then some.

When I was about nine years old,
as I hurriedly tried to tie up
my shoes to race others
to the field,
I heard the phrase:
“You can’t play for our team,
you’re a girl.”

I remember thinking,
“But why does that make a difference?”
Until I turned fifteen years old.

When I was about fifteen years old,
I realized that I did not want to
be a boy any more.
I wanted the freedom and
the power and the worth
every boy I grew up with
felt he had.

I wanted to be an equal.

When I was about fifteen years old,
and heard,
“You can’t play for our team”
as I laced up my heartstrings
like a pair of battered cleats,

I learned to say, with a huge smile,
and a nod, remembering
girls and their strength
and their beauty and their poise
and their ability to keep everything
in and everybody out and
hold together a family or bring
down an army,
“It’s okay. I play for the other team



I don’t care what the scale says, my body is varying weights. Without you, my hands are light as feathers and my heart is heavy as lead. As soon as I was old enough to weigh myself, I learned that the numbers flashing back at me were not a representation of what I see in the mirror and I still haven’t decided which one is a lie. When I lay down to sleep, my body may be floating but my eyelids continue to weigh me down. Without you, my brain is too full and my life is too empty. My body is simply a cage for the person I have trapped inside. But I keep thinking if only I were smaller, if only I were smaller, then that person wouldn’t be so scared of the dark space in there - maybe they would even fit. It’s not a matter of whether or not I can see my toes, because if you told me I looked heavier, I would simply pull the rocks out of my pockets without even telling you I was going for a swim.

Drowning (Body Image Montage) (k.p.k)

does it scare you? to think
that you could be with someone
like me? okay.
i care too much and not
at all. i’m constantly telling myself
i need to be small. i’m a
hypocrite in the worst of ways.
i’ll leave you and i’ll beg you to stay.
i can’t leave the bed
and i live in a dream, if
i’m left alone too long, i’ll probably
scream. i’m a walking cliché
full of contradictions, and
i’ve lost so many people — i
still miss them.
i’ll leave you if you like,
just to make this easy. i’ll go,
and you won’t have to hear from me.
i get that i can be so difficult
to be near, so please, don’t come
close. don’t come here.
—  [don’t] come here // r.e.s

she says
“the universe is ready
for you to make your mark
you may not have much
but at least you’ve got heart

“the world is waiting and
your feet are ready
if you need a hand to hold
mine’s always steady

“and baby, i know life
is full of heartache and gore
but together, we can find
so much worth living for”

—  worth living for // r.e.s
it hurts like nothing
has ever hurt before.
your hands
shake as you open
the door. your
heart a heavy weight
in your chest,
your mind too full
to feel any less.
you breathe in too
then find you can’t
sometimes you
wish you could put
your heart on sale.
you’re so numb
you think that you’re
because that’s
easier than admitting
defeat to the
it hurts like nothing
has ever hurt before.
and you can’t
take it anymore.
you can’t
take it anymore.
—  sometimes // r.e.s
As humans, we are conditioned to believe that louder is better. Clap louder. Hear that fucking applause in your bones. Moan louder. Let them know they’re doing it right. But that’s when silence becomes the greatest weapon. When nobody applauds for you, nobody moans for you, nobody sings you happy birthday or asks how your day went. That’s when you can feel the beat of your heart trying to frantically chase the sounds it’s missing. Human beings are fragile, but in the same way bombs are. I’ve seen fragments of debris leftover in the eyes of people I’ve passed. I’ve seen my girlfriend flinch like a landmine about to go off if I touch her. As humans, we are told to be loud, be loud, be loud - until you actually have something worth screaming your fucking face off about.
—  As Humans, k.p.k

One day I’m going to wake up and I’m not going
to be seventeen any more. I’m not going to be
in high school. I’m not going to have these pimples.
I’m not going to have the same friends and I might
not like to sing the songs from musicals any more.
I’m not going to be worrying about passing any
classes and having my phone in my back pocket
at all times and maybe I won’t even be in love with

One day I’m going to look at myself and I’m scared
that at thirty, or forty, or fifty-six or seventy, I’m still
going to have that seventeen year-old me hidden
in the lines on my face and I don’t want to know
which year buying acne cream turns into buying
overnight age-renewing skin serums, or which year
I realize that most children will resent their parents
no matter how hard they try or which year
I decide I don’t need to buy a bra that properly
supports my breasts any more.

One day I’m going to walk past a mirror and
be terrified of the stranger that has found its way
into my home.


Grown/Groan by k.p.k

Summer is coming,
and I want to be
holding your hand,
like the metal trap
snapped shut around
a bear’s paw,
with my heart pumping to
the beat of the song we
hear too often on the radio
and I can feel your breath
against my ear,
telling me that growing up
means buying more milk
before your old carton
expires, and having a
cabinet for medicine
behind the bathroom
mirror where you keep
the bandages even when
you don’t plan on
being hurt.

I know the sun is setting
later than we’re used to,
and I’m checking my legs
to count the number
of bruises and I’m falling
behind in school because
I can’t stop picturing
the goosebumps along
your stomach
and although I don’t
want to wash my face or
brush my hair,
I think I am finally ready
to look at the mess I have
made and know that it’s
finally time to go to the
drugstore and buy some


i dont plan on being hurt, k.p.k