Reblogged from rapeculturemakesmeangry
This is from the slut walk. One of the arguments is that girls ask for rape because they wear slutty clothes, short skirts, tight, low-cut tops. This girl is an example of the fact that rape victims can look like anyone, you, me, this girl. Rapists. Dont. Discriminate.
I promised a long time ago that I’d reblog this whenever I saw it on my dash. No regrets, it breaks my heart every single time.
an incredibly important message, rape is rape. no one is ever asking for it. a woman has the right to dress how ever they want - it is society that identifies risque dressing as ‘asking for it’, and in my opinion, that way of thinking needs to be diminished.
always reblog
That way of thinking shouldn’t be diminished: it should be destroyed.
always always always reblog.
very powerful.
Forever I will reblog.
this must have taken so much courage.
Forever reblog.
(Source: rapeculturemakesmeangry)
Finally, Gale is here and maybe there is nothing romantic between us, but when he opens his arms I don’t hesitate to go into them. His body is familiar to me — the way it moves, the smell of wood smoke, even the sound of his heart beating I know from quiet moments on a hunt — but this is the first time I really feel it, lean and hard-muscled against my own.
“Listen,” he says. “Getting a knife should be pretty easy, but you’ve got to get your hands on a bow. That’s your best chance.”
“They don’t always have bows,” I say, thinking of the year there were only horrible spiked maces that the tributes had to bludgeon one another to death with.
“Then make one,” says Gale. “Even a weak bow is better than no bow at all.”
I have tried copying my father’s bows with poor results. It’s not that easy. Even he had to scrap his own work sometimes.
“I don’t even know if there’ll be wood,” I say. Another year, they tossed everybody into a landscape of nothing but boulders and sand and scruffy bushes. I particularly hated that year. Many contestants were bitten by venomous snakes or went insane from thirst.
“There’s almost always some wood,” Gale says. “Since that year half of them died of cold. Not much entertainment in that.”
It’s true. We spent one Hunger Games watching the players freeze to death at night. You could hardly see them because they were just huddled in balls and had no wood for fires or torches or anything. It was considered very anti-climactic in the Capitol, all those quiet, bloodless deaths. Since then, there’s usually been wood to make fires.
“Yes, there’s usually some,” I say.
“Katniss, it’s just hunting. You’re the best hunter I know,” says Gale.
“It’s not just hunting. They’re armed. They think,” I say.
“So do you. And you’ve had more practice. Real practice,” he says. “You know how to kill.”
“Not people,” I say.
“How different can it be, really?” says Gale grimly.
The awful thing is that if I can forget they’re people, it will be no different at all.The Peacekeepers are back too soon and Gale asks for more time, but they’re taking him away and I start to panic. “Don’t let them starve!” I cry out, clinging to his hand.
“I won’t! You know I won’t! Katniss, remember I —” he says, and they yank us apart and slam the door and I’ll never know what it was he wanted me to remember.
(Source: robinisthebride, via yourenotsorrry)
