Horsing Around

squeaky-bits:

squeaky-bits:

perfect ^^
[x]

hahah hey notes

squeaky-bits:

squeaky-bits:

perfect ^^

[x]

hahah hey notes

(via 724-hoofbeats)

gianaterranovaphotography:

Had an awesome time taking photos of my amazing teammates at Dogwood today. Here’s a little preview of the day, with Golden Bear in action with Katie Schiewe!

gianaterranovaphotography:

Had an awesome time taking photos of my amazing teammates at Dogwood today. Here’s a little preview of the day, with Golden Bear in action with Katie Schiewe!

(Source: gianaterranovaphotography.com, via 724-hoofbeats)

haleybreen:

nemo feet
summer ‘13

haleybreen:

nemo feet

summer ‘13

(via 724-hoofbeats)

dressagexstrong:

itslittlealf:

BEAUTY.

THIS PONY IS THE REASON I LIVE OK

dressagexstrong:

itslittlealf:

BEAUTY.

THIS PONY IS THE REASON I LIVE OK

(via flying--changes)

“Sometimes when I close my eyes, we’re on a beach in ‘89;
I am twenty-five and I still feel new.
You are twenty-four and your hands are always on me.
You do not make me feel like a consolation prize;
you say I am the one you have been waiting for,
you say everything before me means nothing.
You have a firecracker mouth.
You taste like warm beer and smell like sweat and sun
and I love you,
oh god.

In two years, I am pregnant
and I think it is the greatest gift (part of me and part of you
before you were always angry).
I think I have finally got you to myself
and I have
for a while.
You seem happy,
but I do not know if it is because I seem happy
or because you are genuinely thrilled
to see the swell of my stomach in your bed.
You drink yourself into a stupor when she is born.
They will not let you into the hospital room.

In a year, we are married.
I hate my dress and we fight at the reception.
We pose for photos with gritted teeth and a crying child.
Later I tell you to fuck yourself and I get wasted with my bridesmaids.
It is the first time I wonder if I have made a mistake.
We spend our wedding night sloppily making up:
I want it to work,
I need it to work,
I do not know if it will work
but I am pregnant again in a year
and I know that I am stuck.

Sometimes things are not bad,
sometimes things are very, very bad.
Your mouth is not something I search out anymore.
I still want you more than anything
because I am stubborn
and you are mine,
but your mouth tastes like cigarette smoke
and I think you are slipping through my hands.
You are locked up when he is born
and I am in a hospital room with my mother,
asking to see what I have brought into the world
with and without you—
but there have been complications.

Sometimes we coexist peacefully,
sometimes you use your hands to emphasize
what you’d really like to do to me
and we end up with broken telephones
and photos on the wall, covering up holes the size of your fist.
We have a wall full of photos.
They are too small to understand
the reasons we fight
(sometimes I think I am too small to understand),
so when they ask where you have been
I only smile.

Soon you are gone,
but you are never really gone.
You are calling me from the beds of other women
and I am trying to replace you with strangers.
I reach for your form in the bed,
but the taste is all wrong.
I see you every two weeks for supervised visitation
and you curse at me
for thinking you cannot take care of your own children,
but when I leave them with you alone
they call me in the middle of the night
because you are gone
or you are drunk
and they do not understand
why you are crying or why you are screaming
and I want to tell them that these are things I have never understood.

After a decade of not speaking to you,
your name is not allowed in our house.
It is an unwritten rule.
Sometimes when she asks about us,
I take our daughter into the garage
and I tell her about your firecracker mouth
and your big hands
and all the ways you used to be warm
because those are not the parts of you that she remembers.

I tell her that love is the most important thing,
but she throws you back in my face.
She is still angry.

She associates your mouth with nausea and worry,
your hands with fear,
but I close my eyes and we’re on a beach in ‘89;
I am twenty-five and I still feel new.
You are standing up, wiping sand from your shorts
and you are smiling at me.
My heart feels like it’s beating out of my chest.”
"Letter From The Woman Who Raised Me To The Man Who Didn’t" Trista Mateer (via tristamateer)

(via 0nehundred-years)