yourtypicalfangirl23

[yourtypicalfangirl23]

The OG victim of religious trauma

When you thought I wouldn't hurt you anymore-

[yourtypicalfangirl23]

This is adorable with Cas and Dean but....imagine Aziraphale and Crowley 👀

[yourtypicalfangirl23]

Youth.

 and watching the three of them felt like, the cheap, corner-store shop picture frames expanded into real life. From the stale walls of his bedroom to the reds and oranges of an early autumn sunset where the screams of cicadas echoed through the gold-painted, tar highways. It was desolate, the countryside was dying, and no one except their shadows and them were present. 

In his eyes.

Two boys, one girl. Three of them. The end of summer, he recalled, always brought upon a gut-wrenching dread.

It was always two boys, one girl. Three of them. end of summer.

Always the three of them, when they were too young to be heroes, still ridding the innocence of their adolescence, learning life, finding themselves. Tugging at their uniforms, one button always abandoned, shirt untucked in some parts. Far more comfortable in band shirts and ripped jeans, a zip-up hoodie always unzipped, sweats, always the sweats. Instead of the tightly fitted armor of jujitsu high, too young to be in soldiers' uniforms.

Uncleaned chalkboards, wooden floors, and large paneled windows where the curtain slowly drifted with the summer winds. Three chairs, three desks, and space. Barracks disguised as classrooms. It was always, almost normal. Always, almost kids in high school- until they see the phantom red on their hands, on each other. Until they're afraid of death, until they question if their friends will come back.

High school kids shouldn't worry about carrying their friends' corpses back, shouldn't be worrying about the infinite space that will be left from a desk taken away, two would be an awful number.

Sometimes though, when the skies were especially clear, the sun blinding enough that the classrooms felt like saunas and they had no choice but to take their lessons outside, it truly did feel like high school. On the grass, below a mighty tree, ancient with thick roots, winding with mossy branches, and rings of bark carrying the passage of time, they would laugh, too warm to sit still, too warm to listen.

The tree still stands there, to this day, though mightier in size. It holds now, his dearest memories and a neverending ache, as his eyes linger on the the three of them.

“Your eyes remind me of the sky,” he said. 

Flat on his back, his head to the side, his eyes showed galaxies as they bore through his own. Two hands behind his head, as if he hadn’t a care in the world, as if he had forgotten the blood that was smeared on his hands just yesterday.

“They aren’t though, Suguru” he had said back.

Suguru. Suguru was the boy who had constellations in the creases of his irises, eyelashes saturated with stars, and long, long hair, silky strands that looked like ink from the poems in kanji, he had read as a child. 

Suguru looked back at him. He was beautiful, so very beautiful. Suguru had called his eyes the heavens, the seven seas, the world, and at some point his home. 

His eyes were a source of power and hierarchy. His eyes brought fear, he had been born with these eyes as a man, never a boy, never a child. A soldier through-and-through, a born weapon for jujitsu society, the name of the Gojo clan. His eyes were for humanity, as a hero, as a savior, and as a god. His eyes brought him a military routine, always a house, never a home. He had no parents, he belonged to no one but humanity and jujitsu society. His eyes were treacherous storms and lashes of waves, raging tsunamis. 

But this boy with the soft voice and planetary systems as eyes had called him his. With Suguru, he would be Satarou, a boy in high school, with eyes that looked like a clear summer’s sky. They would be Suguru and Satarou doing whatever high schoolers would do.

A scoff from Satarous’ side broke the trance and Suguru looked back. 

Shoko huffs out a soft chuckle, an unsmoked cigarette hanging from her smirking lips. Her eyes had deep bags under them but they still managed to sparkle as she rolled her eyes at them. One hand under her splayed brown hair, the other fiddling in her pockets certainly reaching for a lighter. After a few moments of rustling and-

“Honestly it's sexist, we can’t wear normal fucking pants with normal fucking pockets, fucking skirts”

She lit her cigarette with one hand, her other, now removed from under her head had reached out to Suguru to offer him one, and as always he would hesitate, and then after a second, the roll would easily slip away from her slim fingers to his. Shoko had tried with Satarou but he was never as easy as Suguru, he could still remember the days when Suguru would snatch the roll away from her lips and offer her a strawberry Chup Chups instead. She had scowled at him but never complained. When days were easy, no caskets and no disappearing friends. Before, their eyes looked darker, before the eyebags, before. Before he took cigarettes so easily. 

It would be the three of them then, on the ground, splayed out on the grass until the sky turned golden, the occasional breeze, drifting leaves down on them, the smell of tobacco thick in the air, and laughter. Fits of laughter, uncontrollable and untameable, wheezing and breathless. Until all three of them would be coughing, Shoko clutching her stomach and Suguru on his side, laughter echoing through the desolate land that was Jujitsu high, and Satarou in the middle, smiling the biggest he’s ever smiled. Brimming happiness at a place that was so riddled with blood and tragedy. 

They would be messy and noisy as teenagers would be, tangled up together, talking shit about teachers, cursing and complaining. Talking about unresolved crushes as their cheeks bloomed with a rosy blush, kicking their feet and twirling their hair or whatever people in love do. Gossiping about the parties they have and haven't been to, talking about that new cafe that opened downtown or that new clothing shop, the one that's biased about their sizes, they don’t even sell the right color nail polish, black, because they had a personal style under these uniforms they were trapped in. 

When they had nothing else to talk about (finally)  and the laughter had died down to comforting silences and content sighs with heads on shoulders, fingers intertwined, legs overlapping each others’, eyes slowly beginning to close after a lazy summer's day.

“Up, you dickheads” 

Shoko would drag them up, a lazy smile on her face and two outstretched hands, the sky had passed its golden hour and a light purple welcomed dusk. Their cigarettes were finished now, on the grass, giving out the last of its smoke, the lights from the windows were just starting to flicker on, and the three of them would escape, leaving the formidable fortresses of jujitsu high. Leaving the echoes of bloodshed and death into a normal life, just for a second, where they would pretend to have calculus and The Great Gatsby as the biggest worries in life.  

The street lamps lit the sidewalk, a few moths dancing along its light, where one lamp, as they proceeded along the path, would never function, it never had. An occasional rumble from an old car or a noisy neighborhood kid with a bicycle would break the silence. Shoko and Satarou would skip, hands held together like preschoolers while Suguru trudged along them, complaining with a smile on his lips. They would take the first right and walk by the few abandoned appliance stores, local grocery stores, and the house with the odd chimney and even weirder garden gnomes. They would pass by the small store that rented all sorts of manga, which would be surely closed by now but still had a myriad of fairy lights at the entrance that looked quite like fireflies this late and into a nook, the only store open this late, at the outskirts of Tokyo, up on the mountains, a lone corner store which sold everything from cigarettes to the most outrageous sodas. Where an old man, as fragile as china, looking as if he would crumble at a mere touch sat on a dainty, rickety, wooden chair. Every single time. He would smile expectedly, never speaking a word, as Shoko brought the cheapest cans of beer to the counter and would wave goodbye every time they left, without fail.

Who knew that such an old face could muster up that bright of a smile?

The three of them would locate the too-small bench at the back of the store, where there would be a mess of weeds and moss, an unkept backyard. They would manage to squeeze together, Shoko in the middle, and put their feet on the circular, metallic, rather rusty, rather large table in front of them. It was too warm for that but they didn’t care as they passed along the cans of beer, awfully bitter and terrible to the taste but good enough for their high school taste buds, until they were all completed and only the metallic cans were left rustling on the ground. 

If they were drunk enough Shoko would slowly take off her hair clips and toss them on the metallic table which would land with a loud clang, normally waking Satarou from his drunken daze. Then she would lay her head on either of their shoulders and for a good old while, the three of them would lie there until Suguru would slowly coax the both of them from their slumber into the long way back. 

And the times when even alcohol couldn’t lay their minds to rest, squeezed upon the bench, Suguru would bring out his collection of nail polish or Shoko would pull out a small speaker. They would paint their nails and listen to whatever indie music Shoko was into and they would stall because they were still too sober, even after the ten or so cans of beer passed along them.

Either way, they would always end up in Satarou’s room, on his bed, or on the floor, all three of them close together, sticky with sweat and alcohol, still in their uniforms, now horribly disheveled, hair sticking out from all places, soft limbs, looking like a bunch of troubled teenagers, like they should have been.  

That would be their summer, their youth. 

At present, the area around them has grown quite a lot, changed just like they had. More appliance stores, more grocery stores, though the house had gone now, replaced with a small cozy apartment building, the lamps all functioned, no manga store, that too had been replaced with a modern tourist office. The one thing that did remain though was that lone corner shop, the old man he heard, had died a few years back. 

But the store remained where it stood, nothing had changed about it. 

Youth, he recalled .

Youth.

[yourtypicalfangirl23]

Bed rotting

Zebra crossing of fluorescent city lights,

flickering here and there through the chunks of violent rust,

the fairy lights were charred,

the heat from the LEDS had almost given out,

and were swaying with the whistles of wind,

slipping through the cracks in the window,

the walls were a bright yellow,

despite their state,

adorned with constellations of red from water pipes,

curling and rotting,

ripping and flaking,

they reach out to caress,

closing in for warmth,

it's you and the bed now,

you're a child again,

everything else is vast ocean,

it's you and the bed,

you're a child again,

floating on the metallic waves of crushed energy drink cans,

streaming through the piles of clothing,

it's you and the bed,

you're a child again,

drifting through the violent clashes of memories,

it's you and the bed,

you're a child again,

flowing through the soft snores of your father when you knew him,

it's you and the bed,

you're a child again,

Your mother's hands against your hair like the saltwater cradling the seaside rocks,

it's you and the bed now,

you're a child again,

you clutch onto the fabric of your lifeline, the thread of cotton,

your sheets and your pillows,

that find their way into your hair and cheeks to caress,

it's not your mother's hands,

the buzz of the fluorescent city lights and the whistles of the breeze,

lull you to sleep,

it's not your father's snores

You're alone, it's you and the bed now.

[yourtypicalfangirl23]

It’s Pride month. You’re not allowed to say “let me get this straight,” you have to say “just so we’re queer…”

[yourtypicalfangirl23]

someone to watch me die.

If anyone were to rain on the canyons on my wrists, I'm sure there'd be a garden in its place. My own birthed thorns, salt rivers threatened to unforgiving lashes of sea.

[yourtypicalfangirl23]

I don't think I've ever experienced unconditional love, god I wanna be loved, loved like one of those insufferable love songs.

[yourtypicalfangirl23]

Bruv this is why no one seems to be around me.

[yourtypicalfangirl23]

[yourtypicalfangirl23]

honestly.

meeee

[yourtypicalfangirl23]

Manic pixie dream girl is so "dream girl" that you think it's love, not knowing it was a cry for help.

[yourtypicalfangirl23]

[yourtypicalfangirl23]

To Be Loved

I want to be loved. And not the kind that’s- A white picket fence crumbling before a storm. A storm so violent, Angry, Sad, And Alone.  Not the kind of love thats- Gold, shimmery and oh so bright, So, so, so bright Until it blinds you, And transforms into something completely different, Slips away from your wrists. I want to be loved. A love that-  When you think about them, Your eyes are a waterfall,  Where between the watercolour blur of your tears,  Stars and galaxies flicker before your irises, A love that- Maps your veins, Roses in tangled roots, Warmth of the sun to red and blue branches, A love that- Treacherous winds that shake the plates of the Earth, Cannot stop the trees from reaching out, From softly comforting the shifting soils with gentle leaves, I want to be loved.

[yourtypicalfangirl23]

The story of Pluto

Once there was a planet, its name was Pluto- was a planet, mind you. Pluto sat at the end of our Solar system, the Sun's radiant rays reached all the other planets, captivating them in it’s warm embrace and the planets, in turn, illuminated the vast darkness of the solar system, all 8 of them, twinkling diamonds. The Sun however always forgot Pluto- Pluto and its crack adorned surface, Pluto and its frostbitten winds, Pluto and its small, weak core. 

So Pluto waited for the brilliant sun, it waited to shine just like the other 8 diamonds. So it waited and waited and waited, Pluto waited for 248 years and 248 more until time felt like the eternal umbra around him. Nothing changed, time was there, darkness was there and Pluto was there. It realised that the Sun would never come and Pluto would never feel the shower of light from its rays. Pluto would be stuck, like it always was, right from the beginning. Afterall it was not Jupiter- grand in its size, all fiery winds and crimson sunsets disguised as cloudy whisps, Venus-tendrils stretched like the intricate branches of trees, burning brighter than the sun itself, forever glimmering or elegant Saturn with its rings and life would simply not exist on Pluto like it did Earth.  

The 8 diamonds were all the Solar system needed, and Pluto was a Quartz- an ashen one at that. Pluto was never actually a planet and the Solar system was never actually it’s home. You see Quartzes can be mistaken for diamonds, until you look hard enough and realise the dull lustre and the odd cuts. So Pluto understood. Asteroids were also considered celestials, Pluto would be an Asteroid-but it was too spherical to truly become one and it did not possess the unique and rocky geometry, but neither was Pluto a planet and it was not an asteroid.

Pluto was not a comet, comets were travelers and sparkled everywhere in its journey. 

Pluto was very, very far from a star. Physically and literally. 

Pluto was not a moon, if it were at least it would be embraced by another planet. 

So what was Pluto? Drowning in an useless timeline, stuck in the intermediate between belonging and forever lost. In these moments, Pluto would think of other galaxies or other universes. Universes in which it didn’t feel so lonely, wasn’t so cold all the time, where Pluto would be grand, beautiful and bathed in light. 

Once there was a planet, its name was Pluto and it only wanted a home. 

[yourtypicalfangirl23]

Sunflower

Budding Yellow,

Rays of sunshine and streamed in light, 

Haloed,

Radiating a warmth,

Captivating everything in its path,

Once yellow now a shimmering gold,

Makes you smile doesn’t she?

The full of your laughters,

Winters never seems to arrive,

But does she ever stand tall?

The small blades of grass whisper,

Of a soul so tired,

And she screams:

Make me void of all emotions,

Sometimes she doesn’t want to be a sunflower,

Maybe she's okay being the withered willow,

Hooded,

Tall, lonely and pitiful,

But oh so beautiful,

Forever drifting with the wind,

Take her away, let the roots crumble ,

Make her faster than the river currents,

Higher than the soaring mountains,

And finally more nothing than the atmosphere,

Take her away,

Make it stop.

[yourtypicalfangirl23]

Villain

SUMMARY: Villain, a character in a narrative who opposes the hero. 

WORD COUNT: 1838

THINGS TO BE AWARE OF: Might just be a little relatable, spiraling agent, much depressing.

Everyone dies, it is a natural phenomenon in the universe. On Earth, life expectancy is approximately 100 years, in Asgard millennia. In that amount of time, may it be seconds, minutes, days, or years we experience intricate and delicate emotions, as any intelligent form of life would, and when the clock finally stops ticking and the periodic thrumming of the pulse slows down to nothing more than a dull hum, darkness invades the mind leaving one with limitless peace or infinite agony.

At this moment Loki Odinson saw a death of torment, he never would have thought his demise would end up this way. An abusive hand was locked around his throat, squeezing, crushing his oesophagus. He could feel his intake of oxygen thinning, his surroundings reduced to nothing but blur. Loki, at this point, hadn’t accomplished anything he wanted, his desire to be ruler was nothing but a thought, conjured to puppet him. When his mind was finally ripped out of the steel chains, he felt empty. Utterly, helplessly empty. No one would believe Loki, for he was a pathetic criminal, his mind a canvas of darkness and dirt, littered with sin to them. There was no chance for redemption then, he was nothing but a villain. 

Villain, a character in a narrative who opposes the hero. 

It was so easy for humankind to label one as a villain. They were monsters in children’s bedtime stories, a symbol of fear and representation of disappointment. A hero would only remain a hero if and only if they gave their whole soul, nothing would be left for them, and the hope that they had stored and kept inside them for the darkest times will have been plundered by society, snatched for the sake of their weak minds to not crumble. Only to receive useless validation. 

Anything less, you weren’t a hero.  How dare you think about yourself first?  

You would suddenly turn into an antagonist, a villain. But did anyone truly know what lies in the minds of these monsters they recite stories of? What torment the hurricane of one’s thoughts could be, especially self-destructive kinds? 

The constant nagging and yelling telling him to stop traveling through this horrendous spiral of depreciation, he’s tired, just so tired but he can’t stop, it’s too late for him to stop. Everyone around gave him nothing but judgemental faces, their eyes boring into his soul, angry scowls and emotionless laughter to mock any kind of mercy. Could they not see his eyes, the dark circles, the now permanent creases drooping down? 

He didn’t mean it.

He just fell, thinking that maybe when he did eternally drop in an increasing acceleration, when everything turned into one color around him and when the once strong pittering of his heart would slow to a calm drum and then into nothing he would finally find peace, be with himself for a while. Nothing but his voice, his mind and his heart. No noise, just a beautiful deafening silence. 

There would be no tomorrow. Silence, for some tortures of hell and for others symphonies of heaven. Maybe next time he would be a vibrant red rather than a withering green. 

Except he didn’t feel content, there was silence but the kind of silence that would make one’s hair stand up. His bones were eternally throbbing and his throat was dry as a desert. The physical pain was unbearable but the fact that there was a tomorrow, there was another day, another agonising second, seemed to make the pain spread ablaze faster throughout his body. Salty tears fell from his tired eyes and that familiar feeling of emptiness began to churn through his stomach slowly flowing towards his throat forming a large lump. The ache seemed to be constant, an overwhelming dullness and every minute it got larger and he wanted to sob hard, cry to let the whole world know how wronged he was, how hurt he felt but Loki’s ribs hurt and his lungs were battered, punctured like the many meteors of the Moon. It didn’t matter, he didn’t want to become a bigger problem than he already was. 

No one came to him, he was abandoned, forgotten to fall. His demise probably was for the best for Asgard. Lost in the storm of his thoughts which stabbed at his open scars, regretting every single decision he made was not a pleasant way to rid himself of boredom or distract himself from the horrific pain. It was tiring, annoying and at times rather embarrassing. What if the All-Father had never put his filthy hands on him? What if he had grown to be blue instead of the fake aesir form he was forced to put on? What if, he was never cheated on, never lied to, never the second option?

Maybe Loki was selfish, it wasn’t a big deal and he overreacted only because it didn’t suit his well being. This was only just a rehearsal of a spoiled, pathetic, mischievous child, whose Guardians were kind enough to take care of him but unlucky enough to be ridden with a disappointment of an heir. That, it was Loki’s fault, that he had deserved all this coming for him, maybe it wasn’t a big deal that he was lied to, if Loki hadn’t sent out the destroyer so haphazardly everything would still be fine, he wouldn’t have fallen and the all-father, mother, Thor would still talk him to him normally. 

It wouldn’t have mattered anyway. Thor, the king of Asgard tall and mighty, who destroyed the enemy with a mighty blow of his hammer, Asgard’s source of reflection, metallic and brilliantly golden and then Loki, Prince of Asgard, brother of Thor, forever following his blindingly shiny brother like a tail of a comet for him to reach ultimately nowhere but always behind his brother, who he can never seem to outshine. Thor was a skilled warrior and Loki was a miserable magician, sorcerer would be a stretch. Whatever Loki did never mattered because in the end, probably for the rest of his poor excuse of a celestial life Thor would always be favoured. 

A titan, larger than the storms of Neptune stood before him. He said he knew about pain, about what Loki had gone through. What Loki failed to notice were the vile stares that came from his new “family”. Regardless of the unspeakable acts the children of Thanos and Thanos himself had put him through, to Loki in a most twisted way he thought of them with his heart, he didn’t seem to associate all the malice, all the injustice and sharp pain he was put through. It’s crazy what loneliness does to a living species, the total desperation you feel while submerged in the darkness of your thoughts. Elephants are famed for visiting the remains of their dead, often stroking their bones and swaying from side to side, they can also die from a broken heart, starving themselves to death, they choose to down themselves in their tears rather than live alone. Everyone experiences grief and utter loneliness, but only some know how to overcome that agony. 

For Loki, it was Thanos. Even when those hands that saved him from loneliness and spiralling desperation, those hands which softly caressed his cheek and said it was okay were now brutally strangling him, Loki couldn’t fully despise him. 

Grief can strike a person at any moment, and tear at them slowly until they fall apart. Like a thread which appears at the end of your sleeves and you have a sudden urge to pull it and you pull and pull until there’s nothing but a broken stitch and a torn sleeve. Grief picks at your weakest points and heaves at you until you feel like a pathetic heap of bones and blood, it never really leaves but when it does, sometimes, it leaves you tattered and bruised and a struggle to get back up. Finding happiness, hope, or even dim candlelight in the abyss of darkness can be a conduit of a ladder and a beacon for addiction. Thanos was his. The urge to listen, to please the titan drove him to madness, Loki never really realized when the cold blue leaked into his emeralds now slowly fading of its twinkle. 

Loki Odinson wasn’t afraid to die, not at all, maybe even glad that he will. He experienced life, he didn’t want it to continue, he didn’t want a new one. Loki wanted out, full-stop.

Except the Norns had other plans for him. He exhaled for the last time, he felt his organs deprived of oxygen, his brain already a mush. He knew then it was his time to go. Thor was on the floor, kneeling, trapped with heavy metal gripping him and robbing him of movement. His face was a lake of tears and blood, their eyes met for a second, Thor’s eyes were ablaze, he could see the fire in them, the scorching heat of his emotions erupting from his irises. Loki smiled, a tear of his own slowly cascaded down his cheek. Loki’s never really seen Thor cry like this, he probably cried like this for mother and he cried when Loki faked his death. He could still hear Thor’s ferocious screams, even when muffled. The screams of his name in some ways comforted him deeper into the sleep-like state.  

“I assure you brother-the sun will shine on us again” those were the last words he said to Thor, the words resonated in his mind, decomposing and forming in intervals, spreading to each and every corner of his mind waiting to reappear, a ghost haunting him. 

Then everything went black and a surge of light hurtled him away from the ship, speeding towards the darkness. Loki felt the burn on his skin, the hotness vibrating in his back. Soon enough Loki was falling again, that’s what he always accomplished successfully. Falling, deeper, longer into the never-ending night of expanding spacetime. 

Asgard has fallen, its then golden glow reduced to a matchstick, cries hovered in the atmosphere and fire-scorched parts of the ship. Pools of thick blood flooded the surface coating the remnants of Asgard in a dark crimson. His golden eyes were flickering, it was his time to descend into Valhalla, his life was protecting Asgard and he had done so fiercely throughout his life. As the life of Asgard disintegrated, it was fit that he would too. Just a while longer, he prayed, as his eyes landed on the falling form. He looked so small, and weak, nothing that made you think that he was a villain. Loki. 

Heimdal smiled as the last thing he saw was a warm green, enveloping his irises. An emerald illuminating in the darkness, a symbol for life, a symbol for hope, and a symbol of Asgard. Loki was not a quivering leaf but a mighty tree, which wouldn’t bow down to the strongest of winds. That thought lulled him into his eternal slumber to Valhalla. 

…..

[yourtypicalfangirl23]

I am a woman.

In a world where there are two sexes, the male and the female, in which I am an inferiority. We call ourselves a intelligent species because we explore and understand different areas of knowledge yet we can’t even seem to treat half of the world population with respect. We give them “rights” when it should have been fact that females should have had them since the beginning because, again, there are two sexes on the Earth. 

Today there are already 11 states in America where abortion is illegal. After 50 years of Roe V. Wade it has been overturned in the country we call the “First world power”. In 1970 Jane Roe filed a lawsuit against Henry Wade, the district attorney of Dallas county, who challenged a Texas law by proposing to make abortion illegal except for when a doctor notifies that the pregnancy can be life threatening for the woman. Jane Roe eventually won the lawsuit by alleging that the state laws were unconstitutionally vague and it was a violation to her personal privacy. 

Since when did female bodies become a part of the constitution? 

We’ve repeated this so many times, IF YOU HAVE NO UTERUS, YOU HAVE NO OPINION. Even if you have one, you don’t have a right to colonize your morals and opinions on other people. Some people have certain privileges that others don’t, some people are struggling with mental health, some people are struggling with issues regarding monetary, some people are not healthy and some are just not ready. If you’ve never been in any of these situation, if you haven’t struggled like these people, again, you have no right to tell them about how they’re “killing babies”. 

Furthermore if this was really about life, then the governments would be focusing on gun violence, health care, education ETC. Except we don’t hear about any of that. 

Before 1973 Supreme court decision that legalized abortion, abortion was illegal in America. Denying women to abortions doesn’t prevent them from doing the procedure, it only encourages them do it illegally and in unsafe conditions.  Unsafe abortions is a leading cause to maternal death and morbidity, creating mental and physical health for women to plummet while burdening them with social and financial issues within their communities. 

6 out of 10 of all unintended pregnancies end up in abortion (WHO). 

In 1976 a research article from the center of disease control examined the data for national abortion from three years surrounding the rulings and estimated that the number of illegal abortions plummeted from around 130,000 to 17,000 between 1972 and 1974. 

Making abortion illegal won’t prevent women from “killing their babies”, instead they will be increasing the chance of an unsafe abortion. 

If this is not about life, then what is it about?

I am a woman and I will not let someone else control my body.