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Im megan I love to write. And youtubers are fab. Arctic monkeys are the bae and I'm an all around loser ✌American and hoping for life ✨





"holy shit did she go to our elementary school"

"i dont know if thats her"

"i rly dont think thats her guys"


"holy shit shes hot"









I don’t wanna go to work. I don’t wanna grow up. I’m not going, I’m going to stay home and watch Mulan




9 words to make you really think.

This. Is. Profound.

This is something everyone should see




9 words to make you really think.

This. Is. Profound.

This is something everyone should see


how i comfort my friends:



those faces they make give me life


Were all sorry that we don’t break as often as we should. Or fall in love as profoundly as the first one. Sorry that we need more then the teas of Christmas Eve to put us to bed. That we need hips now, and dicks, and sleazy music with a heavy bass line. Sorry that we can’t open limber eyes and wake without man handling the morning. What do we do, when all of the bones in our love have fallen out the socket? What do we say to dancing then? But that we had enough of tripping over old skin. A pile of evolution pooling on the floor. We forgotten how to be humble, or human. Looking in the mirror handily recognizable, were over the prostitution but still as young as girls with big dreams, wrinkles where they thin our youth, til there’s nothing more then a white cotton t-shirt that has had one two many battles with the washing machine. We’ve shrunk our bright eyes down to size the way you do tumors, or things you’ve outgrown. Pupils, like half open closet doors. Dark & darker still. With skeletons, threading our eyelashes each time I blink. I don’t start a grave yard, rattle some memory and pluck one more flower pedal from the world. I love you, I love you not half as much as I did at 18. & then not even as half as much as I did at 12. When I was 10 I wrote my first poem. A sonnet. About stars & love. & at 10 I knew nothing about love, only that it was cosmetic. The one line that I could remember is, all this passion leaves to desire. & at that age I never felt passion course in my veins, but I believed I would, because then I believed in anything and anyone. But I hardly do that anymore. Who needs believing when your at the age of reason. Cause now? Now I know everything and everyone. And no one is as beautiful as your idea of them. Nothing is as pure as the fate I lost when I realized that.

What do you do when you misplaced your faith in your species? When you can’t find any grace for people? When you start looking for ways to empty them? Do you use your veins as a chock chain for someone else’s heart? When that limp in your gate in just an ape climbing it’s way out of your spine. We are all the animal. And none of the pray. These days everyone’s out for blood, so could you butcher some kindness? Sometimes, I feel smaller than A Swiss Army knife. Is being guarded the only way to live life? Always on the run, so your little bored dreams are not things you step into, like grass from cross trainers you were only meant to chase them. And following you are the two ugly step sisters, age and dream. I know it’s sad, but before I go there’s just a couple things I’ve come to know, butterflies with their wings are just caterpillars aspiring to be the birds that eat them. And evolutions birth dreams but take life’s. And quite trying to climb out of your skin, I don’t care what Andrea Gibson says. Your ribs are not ladders, monkey bars are prison bars. The human heart? Has a pre set number of beats, and loves in a life time. So none of these things should be used lightly as metaphor, & I’m sorry this is true. And I’m sorry for being sorry. But nothing moves me anymore.


Alysia Harris- Paris in the Rain

Every fantasy begins in Paris,

Especially the recovering romantic who sits outside the mother of all cathedrals, praying with the dirt and glory of a failed love enshrined beneath her fingernails.

Some cities look like a wet dog that’s been beaten…and I can say that about New Haven, if it even counts as a city. And I can say that about Moscow, about Rome, about Cairo: mid sandstorm fluttering in a skirmish of red dust, and even Philly, with its sewers and its bridges and its rust…but not Paris.

The grandeur of Paris is not lost, not even in the rain.

My second night, jet lagged and heart sore, I sat up writing after I awoke, soaked from a dream where you made love to me your body laid over me like an ocean trying to keep the secret of sand, the waves saying to the land that “you are not gold, but you belong to me. Even now, you belong to me.”

And all of Paris belongs to me and I belong to this notebook and this pencil and I sat repeating this phrase, listening to this unusual weather sing its musical as it stenciled the black rain like dropped pupils into the face of concrete. I was reminded of the night we sat reading Baldwin in a loft not big enough for us to stand in when the rain beat its head against the roof then, too.

I wanted to enter the downpour in my nightgown. Let it drown me in the nostalgia that I am yet too young to make a mantra of, let it chase me through the cobbled streets sleek with Parisian lights let it find me weak with, with love and guillotines and truffled mushrooms and love and subway carts and love and sidewalk cafes and did I mention love?

I mean Paris is a place where the lingerie shops are named “Darjeeling.” If that doesn’t make you think of sleeping next to a woman, and then waking up next to that same woman and kissing her with the mouth of morning and then together making tea, I don’t know what does.

With the clouds passing overhead in a parade of gray mists, I waltzed with my mother, from Napoleon’s tomb to the cheek of the Mona, to the bare Tuileries gardens decorated with not a single flower but I waltzed with her, past the bronze statue looking like a choir of bronze ghosts, past the gossiping fountains and the homeless woman shouting at the top of her lungs “this chair belongs to me and all the Louvre belongs to me!” and it did. It was made for the rich, but ever since it was the unspoken home of people who need to forget, and to remember and I am remembering to forget you as best I can but dammit, you belong to me!

If only in between the shoulders of September, if only for the width of fall, those days spent walking downtown with you, I could wrap my arms around the whole bouquet of autumn but you didn’t stay.

Anyway, we waltzed, my mother and me, and when she grew tired, I danced without a lover’s arms or any music at all, never fearing looking like a fool because people understood that I was American and this was Paris with its heart shaped stars, alive with its people with its carousels and Ferris wheels and palaces decorated with gold leaf and lollipop shaped trees and all the couples pruning each other with their kisses and all the well-clad children learning that puddles are good for footprints, sketching their names in the mud like “these boots, they belong to me” and I belong to this earth and everyone should fall in love in Paris—if not forever, then at least once.  

The city is so romantic. You asked me “how romantic?” I wanted to tell you that even its marble has a voice. I heard it ask me, “Why isn’t he here and why isn’t he kissing you?”  My heart, my heart exploded into a champagne bottle full of tears. I said “because he doesn’t feel the same.” And it said, “You fool. Did you forget? I belong to you. What are you crying for? You’re in Paris, in the rain, and the city is weeping too. She’s baring her soul to you, but somehow she’s not one bit sad.”





There’s a very drunk man down my street who has been flirting with a tree for twenty minutes now.  

He’s on his knees now. I think he’s proposing. 

Drunk man currently walking away from the tree, shouting “YOU’RE ALL THE SAME”.