thestayups:

And
What felt to be permanent
Became temporary,
Became memories.
Every certainty
Washed over me.
Fresh beginnings
Bitter ends
Split ends,
I cut,
Cut people off like
Withered branches.
I will trust in God alone,
If anything left over,
I will trust that the sun
Will burn for the Son
And that the morning bird song
Is always his praise.
Every fleeting love,
Be made as a carpet,
For the love that walked
Upon this earth, my soil.

sunteaflower:

We call ships ‘she.’ We call our war machines ‘women.’ We compare women to black widows and vipers. And you’re going to tell me it’s not ‘lady-like’ to scream, to take up space, to fight and demand respect and do whatever the hell I want. You’ve looked at nuclear bombs and been so in awe that you could only name them after women. Don’t try to down-play my power.

(via phantasmagoricinvasion)