"I pity the woman who will love you
when I am done. She will show up
to your first date with a dustpan
and broom, ready to pick up all the pieces
I left you in. She will hear my name so often
it will begin to dig holes in her. That
is where doubt will grow. She will look
at your neck, your thin hips, your mouth,
wondering at the way I touched you.
She will make you all the promises I did
and some I never could. She will hear only
the terrible stories. How I drank. How I lied.
She will wonder (as I have) how someone
as wonderful as you could love a monster
like the woman who came before her. Still,
she will compete with my ghost.
She will understand why you do not look
in the back of closets. Why you are afraid
of what’s under the bed. She will know
every corner of you is haunted
by me."

Clementine von Radics

I am on a serious Clementine kick and this one punched me right in the face.

(via dykegirlfriend)

(Source: jerktopus, via dykegirlfriend)



i was a 14 year old girl,
with the idea that sex was
sinful, but i stuck my hands
down my pants for the first
time anyways

i was a 14 year old girl,
my body covered with
self inflicted wounds,
some of which spelled
out an older boys name.

i was 14 on new years,
and i kissed my first girl
then got in the shower,
for my body was impure
dug my nails into skin

i had just turned 15 two
days before, the boy
whose name is on my
thigh, fucked me on my
couch at 2 in the morning

to my surprise, i didn’t
feel impure, i felt awakened
i was a wide-eyed, too skinny
teenage girl with a taste for
new experiences, and fucking

i fucked him for two years off
and on, there was a label on it
off and on, but my love was
consistent, even though i wasn’t
sure if his was. things ended.

turned 16, kissing straight girls for
fun, drinking too much and
fucking way too little, self-
inflicting pain and a little bit
of illegal drug use

forming fake friendships for the
hell of it. we droved to the city
found older guys and one with
a british accent asked me the
dirtiest thing i’ve ever done

i shocked him and it made me
feel tall. i leaned in and kissed
his lips, he tasted like beer and
a lot of regret. i can’t drink beer
without flashbacks

i cried in the back seat on the way
home, i cried for the beautiful boy
that i walked out on and i cried for
his kiss that made me feel safe
instead of scared and sinful

i’m older now, not by much, but
enough. i still cry for the boy who
tasted like mint, and i still can’t
kiss someone without tasting
a fuckload of regret


— a girl never forgets her first (via dykegirlfriend)

(via dykegirlfriend)




My battered heart will always be
where the ocean meets the sand, I
will break over and over

Every day. That is the best and
worst part of me.


— Clementine von Radics (via dykegirlfriend)

(Source: journalofanobody, via dykegirlfriend)







Her story is the saddest, she was a real G. At least she got some action in the ending

Always so rude, that one.



Don’t tell me this
sucks for you too.

a killer cannot sue
for the bruises
on his knuckles

or the blood
on his shoes.


Beau Taplin, "Counterclaim." (via versteur)

(Source: afadthatlastsforever, via dykegirlfriend)


"I think about you. But I don’t say it anymore."

— Marguerite Duras, Hiroshima, Mon Amour (1959)

(Source: larmoyante, via dykegirlfriend)