I want to be meaningful;

But not so that no one can hear me.

I want to be deep;

But not so that no one can see me.

I want to be pretty;

But not so that I lie, discarded, face-up.

I want to be inspired;

But not a thief.

I want to experience;

To feel the wind on my cheeks,

The shock of fresh air,

The musty scent of a half friendship,

And the eyesore that only comes, empty-handed, from looking too hard.

But oh, how I want to look hard!

And feel the strands of hair on my face,

The fade on my boots,

And the warm, familiar tug of a heart to a love.


– but not so that no one knows me.


By The Nina Weevil. I own it; don’t copy it.

don’t want to

…leave my home.

hate us, love us, stereotype us; we’re just two letters.

click for captions.

i’m not ready

…to leave this place

Colors for a Blind Man

I felt bad that I hadn’t posted anything for a while, so I wrote these “Color for a Blind Man” blurbs. Try to guess what the color looks like, then see the answer at the bottom.

1. This color is the sky, only when you’re turning your head to look at your secret love. This color is regret and a little failure, but also inspiration and plastic, and a dash of perfect. Don’t you ever admit it, though; this color is incredibly shy. Read this in a whisper. You’ve just heard the color. This is periwinkle, but only to the pretenders. And then it changes.

2. This color is sassy. You better like it, otherwise it’ll retort with one of exactly 17 comeback phrases it spent 30 minutes on the phone with it’s girlfriends talking about. Is it sad? Well, no, but it’s not like you would be able to tell anyways. Someday, it’ll chip, little by little, until what’s left is it’s true beauty, the part that not everyone may like. Then, people will simply walk by, wondering what happened.

3. This color is the anxious folds of your dress. It seems soft, fuzzy at the edges, but hardens once you touch it, so you’ll never know. This color is a memory, one that’s been kept in a chest in an abandoned basement. Someday, you’ll open it, and one day, you’ll perhaps taste it, in a dapple of sunlight stained by dead tree leaves. You’ll know what old yet virgin wine tastes like, freshly poured by your worst friend. Wait – was that a chemical?

1. Image

2. Image

3. Image

More feminist/puberty/one-sided-arguments-on-social-constructs stuff to come later. I just wanted you guys to know that we’re not dead.