I'm Tired

Sometimes life just gets to you, ya know?

It's perfectly normal. It's to be expected.

But I wouldn't mind a break right now.

That'd be too easy though.

I can carry a lot more than people think.

I can carry a lot more than I know.

I miss doing aerial every day.

If I could just find a place that would let me set up my silks...

Then I'd have flight to free my mind for a bit.

Etoile

I have never wanted to be vulnerable...until now.

All I Need

Revolting

I am a person.

I am not an object.
I am not a privilege.
I am not an entitlement.
I am not entertainment.
I am not aesthetic.
I am not incomplete.
I am not yours.

I am a woman.

I am a force.
I have an opinion.
I do not decrease in value.
I am not my appearance.
I possess answers.
I am strong individually.
I belong to no one.

Never again will an attempt to take advantage of my femininity be tolerated or quietly pushed aside. Be it by a man, a woman, or a group of individuals.

Flight

In all seriousness, dance is the closest I've come to true flight. After experiencing something so exhilarating how could I ever dream of giving it up?

About Boobs {Sorry, Gents.}

http://hellogiggles.com/flat-ter-your-beautiful-boobs-and-make-some-pancakes-already

I love this. I've honestly had such an inconsistent chest size throughout my life due to varying levels of athleticism, health issues, and medical diet changes. I went from being almost a D at age nineteen to just barely finding out a week ago that I'm back to being an A at twenty one. I also realized that I'm perfectly okay with it. So many of my girl friends have acted like someone has died whenever it gets brought up. Like I'm mourning my full chest. But I've realized that I really don't mind. I think I even prefer being flat chested at the moment just because I have an aversion to what I refer to as "The Big-Girl Bra," (basically anything with an underwire or padding.) I prefer comfort. There are pros and cons to either end of the spectrum, so I might as well love the pros I've got while I have them. I think that we as women so easily forget our own beauty comes from our individuality, particularly when faced with the media's portrayal of "idealism." So thank you, Ellen Clifford, for your honest, tasteful, and good humored post. :)

Don't Touch Me.

You know her.

The girl who is all roses and smiles.
She won't always show teeth when she grins and finds that unnatural is the sound of anger.
Despite this, the closest you'll actually get to her is transparency.

If you're looking at every inch of a thing, microscopes and autopsies will show that to grab on distorts the image. Cutting off blood flow. Marring detail. Changing. So are you really holding her? Or is she only the unattainable image? The closest you can get to cradling that is to take a picture. Which time will eat away at with hungry lights and burning tongues and settling grime. Who is she? The face in the frozen moment? Or the moment you see through a faded 2D 4X6 window cracked and wrinkled by the wallet it folded into? If the face, then she's gone. Age made her a new one. If the moment, she became someone else in the next.
Everyone has a separate reality. What appears to one is entirely different from what appears to another. The eyes that view a thing find separate parallels. Two lines on the same plane arriving at completely different destinations.

I don't want you to have any part of my soul because you don't know what it means.