that indian girl

for me inner and outer beauty are intertwined. i cannot distinguish between them. once i discover what someone is inside, i develop my opinion on their outside too. 

a person with a small, jealous heart is ugly.

and a person with a genuine smile and vulnerability is beautiful. 

that’s it. 

when were you the most spiritual?

when i questioned god the most.

what was the most difficult?

smiling and meaning it.

she lived in a secret of a house. lined with ornaments of an india that only existed in her mind. an india that was a secret. where everyone ate together, on chaadars set on the floor, circled around plates of roti. a secret india that she kept buried away deep in her jewelry drawer, behind the orange painted necklace of sea shells. in america.

our lady of many secrets had a bad habit. when she would stand in the mirror, when she would adorn herself, when she showered, when she did the dishes, she would take the name of her child, her husband. over and over. for no particular reason, from no part of her consciousness. and they would come asking “yes? what happened?”

“oh nothing”

and they would laugh. they got used to her habit.

today, she takes their names when she stands in the mirror, when she adorns herself, when she showers, when she does the dishes. and nobody comes. one six feet under the ground, and the other buried in her youth and her english and her college. and she keeps taking their names. burying their “oh nothing’s” like secrets in her jewelry drawer. behind the orange necklace of sea shells. behind her little secret india. behind the families circled around their roti. 

keeping them alive in that one little secret corner of her life.

i don’t trust anyone.

MARRY MEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE

(via nextstoprequested)

dear lord,

be mine.

(via dontoverdoz)

the night was jet black like her hair. the sky hung thick and heavy like the remains of an old coal mine. a mine that collapsed on all its men; still ringing with the shrill cries of their wives. on the parched grass, a snake sloughed out of its old skin. the moon burned orange in the river. she, the singer, was sitting inside. right leg crossed over the left. there was a scrape on her knee from the night she was drunk and bumped into the rickshaw she was trying to take home. at the time, it did not hurt. her hair fell long and lanky, like drooping black (grey covered in hair color) curtains around her face. the outside of her left thigh was cold where his leg had met hers when they were sitting together. two people joined by body heat and not by words and not by heart. how useless to share body heat. like giving the blind eyeglasses. like coloring a dead woman’s hair. she wore a rose skirt that felt slightly below the knees, a veil for her bruises and drunken nights. her lips, that had graced many a mic in small hotels with drunken men (that claimed intoxication off her voice), were bright-apple red. but those were other nights. tonight, she was not looking out the window. she was not singing. she was waiting. not looking, not singing. waiting. right leg shivering impatiently over the left.

(via dont-believe-in-fairytales)

synonymous2:

“War does not determine who is right. War determines who is left.” - Bertrand Russell

(via nextstoprequested)