the bond between a girl and her comfort hbo show… one for the history books im afraid
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i need an ugly cat. like a truly ugly despicable creature i love with all my might.
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Forwarded from redacted (x)
this emptiness in my chest is a result of not having a physical copy of autobiography of red actually. nothing else
yesterday i dreamt of an old friend i never got to see irl and im suddenly remembering it and all these feelings rushed to me.
how would i describe myself to you?
i have a hard time trusting things, people, places, feelings and most of all myself. i’ve never felt safe in my life. my joy lasts two hours max. i am incredibly lonely. fundamentally lonesome. there’s something very deep inside of me that seeks solitude even in the busiest days. i am too honest, i have a problem with my tongue. i can’t control her. but i am not honest with myself. i can’t be that vulnerable with anyone. i hate things way before i let myself love them, mostly because i’m cursed. anything i touch turns to dirt. anyone i like dies. wether physically, emotionally or socially. i bring with myself a foul stench that comes with leaving a dead body out for far too long. i carry my dead with me everywhere i go. i don’t like bitter things, i have to drink my tea with more than two sugar cubes. i want to be liked by everyone. i don’t like explaining myself much. i like pens and pencils and paper. my last three therapist told me im smart in my first session. i don’t think i believe them. my favorite flowers are tulips. i’ve never gotten a tulip bouquet. i think the sting of the punch outlasts the taste of the kiss.
i have a hard time trusting things, people, places, feelings and most of all myself. i’ve never felt safe in my life. my joy lasts two hours max. i am incredibly lonely. fundamentally lonesome. there’s something very deep inside of me that seeks solitude even in the busiest days. i am too honest, i have a problem with my tongue. i can’t control her. but i am not honest with myself. i can’t be that vulnerable with anyone. i hate things way before i let myself love them, mostly because i’m cursed. anything i touch turns to dirt. anyone i like dies. wether physically, emotionally or socially. i bring with myself a foul stench that comes with leaving a dead body out for far too long. i carry my dead with me everywhere i go. i don’t like bitter things, i have to drink my tea with more than two sugar cubes. i want to be liked by everyone. i don’t like explaining myself much. i like pens and pencils and paper. my last three therapist told me im smart in my first session. i don’t think i believe them. my favorite flowers are tulips. i’ve never gotten a tulip bouquet. i think the sting of the punch outlasts the taste of the kiss.
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Forwarded from patron saint of desire
“I’ve always preferred Cain.
His angry loneliness, his lack of his mother’s love, his Christian sarcasm: “Am I my brother’s keeper?” asks his brother’s murderer.
Aren’t we indeed the keepers of our dead?”
— Valzhyna Mort, Genesis
His angry loneliness, his lack of his mother’s love, his Christian sarcasm: “Am I my brother’s keeper?” asks his brother’s murderer.
Aren’t we indeed the keepers of our dead?”
— Valzhyna Mort, Genesis
cant believe uk just had a “coronation” like its 2023. get that medieval ass term away from me.
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ppl r so funny saying “i love women 😍” under a thirst post like its ok to just be horny
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i feel like all the things ive tried to do to make this pain tolerable are wearing off and the ugly stench of my wounds are suffocating me
i exist only as an idea. i exist like a dream you’ve had since you were 6 and it’s all so vogue you can’t really forget it so you try making a truth out of the remainders. i am the remains. i am the last bricks of the berlin wall, still sitting there. useless, aimless, futureless.
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