Shaena | 22 | San Francisco | Young heart, old soul.

The following is a paradoxical account of what goes on in my head. Ever changing, ever passionately curious.

Also, disclaimer: Not that anyone spends extensive amounts of time on my blog or anything, but, in the case that someone is offended by a photo, I'd just like to point out that there are some posts shown on my blog that have undisplayed commentary due to the tumblr theme I've chosen.

" The average prison sentence of men who kill their women partners is 2 to 6 years. Women who kill their male partners are sentenced on average to 15 years. This is despite the fact that 86% of female offenders kill in self-defense, while males are most likely to kill out of possessiveness (82%), abuse (75%), and during arguments (63%). Women are eight times more likely than men to be killed by an intimate partner. "
the risks and pitfalls of dying twice


In the weeks before her death, my grandfather dreamed

of my grandmother twice, as if he knew the end were coming

even before it came. In the first dream she undressed for bed,

removing her blouse in the dark light of the window as always,

but this time as her shirt fell away it revealed every bone underneath,

her ribcage in its entirety, the long lines of the humerus and ulna,

no skin at all, as if she had slipped out of her soul along with her clothes.

That night they slept spooned together with his wrinkled face

pressed against the bloody raw wreckage of her exposed heart,

arms around her skeleton. The next morning he sat

at the breakfast table with cold cereal, not even looking at me.

The second time, he fell into the dream hard,

landing in a pile of orange and red fall leaves covering

the backyard of their winter cabin in Minnesota.

She was wearing pink shorts and a ruffled lace top with

high-topped sneakers, grey hair pulled back in a ponytail,

an outfit from the teenage years when he first met her.

He pulled her into the leaves, laughing, throwing fistfuls

of them into her smiling face, but when he reached

to circle his hands around her waist she sank deep

into the pile, its edges closing over her head,

and was sucked down below as if into quicksand.

When she died for real several weeks later,

my grandfather had already been prepared for her death twice,

but wept as hard as he had the first time.

That’s what I learned from my grandparents about love:

it hurts no matter how often you fall into it,

even if this is your millionth time.

I often wonder how people would react if I died. 

" We are here to laugh at the odds and live our lives so well that Death will tremble to take us. "
I say that everything happens for a reason, but I don’t think I’ll ever begin to understand why young, promising, incredibly loved individuals lose their lives before they have the opportunity to reach their fullest potential.

It doesn’t seem fair.