aka-emmers
the-doctor-to-my-tardis:

kiss-my-aspergers:

foxstitches:

serasquatch:

berserkasfuckk:

Matilda

I was rewatching this movie the other day and got up to the point where she and Miss Honey meet for the first time in the classroom, and she mentions that her favorite author is Charles Dickens.
And, like, I always thought they namedropped him in order to make her sound intellectual, but it occurred to me really suddenly and violently that the reason she loves Dickens is because he writes about children who live in abusive systems and who’ve been orphaned or abandoned and she finds comfort and solidarity in it. Miss Honey’s reacts the way she does because Dickens is special to her, likely for the same exact reason. WOW DUH.
ONLY GETTING THIS LIKE 15 YEARS LATER. ALL ABOARD THE SLOW MOBILE.

omG

If it’s any consolation, I’m pretty sure 70% of the people reblogging this also didn’t realise this until you said it. Myself included.

everyone says i look like matilda it’s weird

the-doctor-to-my-tardis:

kiss-my-aspergers:

foxstitches:

serasquatch:

berserkasfuckk:

Matilda

I was rewatching this movie the other day and got up to the point where she and Miss Honey meet for the first time in the classroom, and she mentions that her favorite author is Charles Dickens.

And, like, I always thought they namedropped him in order to make her sound intellectual, but it occurred to me really suddenly and violently that the reason she loves Dickens is because he writes about children who live in abusive systems and who’ve been orphaned or abandoned and she finds comfort and solidarity in it. Miss Honey’s reacts the way she does because Dickens is special to her, likely for the same exact reason. WOW DUH.

ONLY GETTING THIS LIKE 15 YEARS LATER. ALL ABOARD THE SLOW MOBILE.

omG

If it’s any consolation, I’m pretty sure 70% of the people reblogging this also didn’t realise this until you said it. Myself included.

everyone says i look like matilda it’s weird

poetry-central

When I was twelve years old, my skin turned into thread and my teeth turned into silver needles that sewed together my emotions with my best friend’s sobriety so that my words would be trapped beneath layers of epidermis and episodic memories of how my sexuality effected my mother so greatly.

When I was thirteen my words began to rebel by pushing at my exterior but I could not find the right way to let them go without releasing them in dark pools of hemoglobin and hopelessness.

When I was fourteen I counted airline miles on my computer screen and overheated my phone in the middle of July until I realized that I would never meet the girl who lived on the other side of the country in a town that I never learned how to pronounce. When I was fourteen I realized that there is a difference between long distance and long shots and that words mean nothing if they have no air behind them.

When I was fifteen I met a boy who left roses at my doorstep when I said that I loved daisies and stuck me with piercing metal pins when I refused to sleep with him because being gay was a phase that I should’ve been over but wasn’t because I kept imagining my lips meeting the lips of my future lover and her lips were HER lips and not his.

When I was sixteen I found a map of Pennsylvania and was blinded by the light of the city where my summer lived with brown skin and a beating heart. She left me on a train from Manhattan trying to stick my fingers in electrical sockets and praying that I had someone to pray to. In October I quit my job and laid in bed for a weekend wishing that my covers were thick enough to warm me, but they weren’t.

When I was seventeen, I learned the pain of waiting for a girl who wouldn’t wait for me. I learned that anything unrequited is poison and pain ten times worse than that of my parents divorce or the year in high school when I stopped eating, but I hoped for her and wrote for her on every palm until I realized that she was blind and could never see the art that I had created in her image. And I knew then that my voice was too important to fall to deaf ears and that one day there would be someone who was willing to listen.

I am seventeen years old and I am not who I was when I was young. I have released the threads that have contained me and can open myself without releasing blood. My mother’s mouth no longer curls up at the edges when I say “I think i am falling for her,” because I have never said that before today.

I am seventeen years old and I am unzipped. I am self sufficient and safe in my own arms that have never betrayed me and I am ready to use these arms to hold you.

I Kept Writing Until I Felt Clean by LeahJuliett (via be-free-barbie)