Cottoncloud
“Do not teach your daughters to be ‘pretty.’ Do not entomb her in a pretty pink tower and insist that only the degree of her physical appeal may set her free. Teach her to fight her way out, to consume books and spit knowledge to lesser boys who insist she is just beautiful and nothing more. Teach her to love her body not to manipulate and put a price tag on herself as a defined worth she shall be immeasurable she shall be more than this. Do not let her break herself down when the boy in kindergarden hits her because he likes her. What are you really teaching her? Pain and love are not synonymous neither are pretty and perfection. Teach her to be kind to be harsh to be demure to be wild to be sensitive to be thick-skinned But good god, Do not teach your daughters to be ‘pretty.’”
jungtaekitten: I wish I was pretty but like actually pretty, not “my friends and family think I’m pretty because they’re my friends and family” pretty (via bumblegum)

jungtaekitten:

I wish I was pretty but like actually pretty, not “my friends and family think I’m pretty because they’re my friends and family” pretty

(via bumblegum)

#converse #allstar #revolution
#demi #neonlight #tour
Pain, hurt, and love. I walked into my room, pulling my sweater off. I sat down and put my head in my hands, thinking about how my life was. My mom and dad ignored me because they didn’t like what I did, I had no friends because no one could look past my skin, I was failing every class because the teachers wouldn’t give me a chance to make it up, though I watch them give others a chance. At the cafeteria at school, the ladies who serve it give me dirty looks and I hear them talk about me. I felt a single tear fall down my cheek as I realised how much my life was screwed up. I stood up and walked to the mirror over the desk. I looked at myself for a long time. I looked at my bright green eyes, hidden in layers of dark eyeliner. My face made pale from the eye makeup. I looked at my long dyed black hair. I dyed it black because the colour reflected me. Naturally, it was blonde. What had I done to myself? I wanted to change back but everything went wrong one year and it’s never gone right again. My parents had had a fight, and it broke my heart. They ended up screaming at me, they hit me. It got so bad that my mom’s nails scratched my wrists, drawing blood. I was shoved in to the corner of a wall, and it broke my arm. I have never been the same. I looked down at my hands, now sore from gripping the edge of the table. Of course, my eyes moved to my pale wrists, covered in ugly scars from three years of cutting myself. I looked to my night stand, where a piece of broken glass lay. A dark smile spread across my face. I went to my bed and sat down, reaching for the glass. My heart hurt too much. Anything would be better than this. So instead of feeling it on the inside, I felt the pain on the outside. I held the tip of the glass to my wrist and dragged it along my skin, feeling the sharp pain. I held my breath, feeling adrenaline kick in. Then a scarlet line formed and dripped down onto my hand and then I wiped it up with a cloth before it could drip on to the carpet and then my parents would know. I sighed as I felt the pain leave my heart and focus on my wrist. No one understood me. They never would.

Pain, hurt, and love.

I walked into my room, pulling my sweater off. I sat down and put my head in my hands, thinking about how my life was. My mom and dad ignored me because they didn’t like what I did, I had no friends because no one could look past my skin, I was failing every class because the teachers wouldn’t give me a chance to make it up, though I watch them give others a chance. At the cafeteria at school, the ladies who serve it give me dirty looks and I hear them talk about me. I felt a single tear fall down my cheek as I realised how much my life was screwed up. I stood up and walked to the mirror over the desk. I looked at myself for a long time. I looked at my bright green eyes, hidden in layers of dark eyeliner. My face made pale from the eye makeup. I looked at my long dyed black hair. I dyed it black because the colour reflected me. Naturally, it was blonde. What had I done to myself? I wanted to change back but everything went wrong one year and it’s never gone right again. My parents had had a fight, and it broke my heart. They ended up screaming at me, they hit me. It got so bad that my mom’s nails scratched my wrists, drawing blood. I was shoved in to the corner of a wall, and it broke my arm. I have never been the same. I looked down at my hands, now sore from gripping the edge of the table. Of course, my eyes moved to my pale wrists, covered in ugly scars from three years of cutting myself. I looked to my night stand, where a piece of broken glass lay. A dark smile spread across my face. I went to my bed and sat down, reaching for the glass. My heart hurt too much. Anything would be better than this. So instead of feeling it on the inside, I felt the pain on the outside. I held the tip of the glass to my wrist and dragged it along my skin, feeling the sharp pain. I held my breath, feeling adrenaline kick in. Then a scarlet line formed and dripped down onto my hand and then I wiped it up with a cloth before it could drip on to the carpet and then my parents would know. I sighed as I felt the pain leave my heart and focus on my wrist. No one understood me. They never would.