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My father tried to raise his daughters to be women with thick skin.
He’d say that this isn’t a world for women lost in their own feelings.
But sometimes I think he mistakenly confused teaching us to be strong with shaming our hurt.
Because now that I am a woman,
I can’t cry, even when my heart begs me too,
even when I want to be overwhelmed,
even when every wound asks for salt water to heal.
I’m too afraid of the shame that comes from being perceived as weak.
Too ashamed to hear that I am just like my mother.
Key Ballah,  (via keywrites)
So I’ve been saving the shells of most of the pistachios I’ve eaten for the past year and a half (and I eat a lot of pistachios), and I’ve finally thought of something to do with them.
I’m gonna paint on them and make a sort of collage on this 60 cm x 80 cm canvas I bought tonight, and this is a sketch I made for it. 
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So I’ve been saving the shells of most of the pistachios I’ve eaten for the past year and a half (and I eat a lot of pistachios), and I’ve finally thought of something to do with them.

I’m gonna paint on them and make a sort of collage on this 60 cm x 80 cm canvas I bought tonight, and this is a sketch I made for it. 

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