Dying Over This Fucking Cookie Man Good Lord

on everyone's soul this is what happened

on purpose. I love you on purpose.

the seven husbands of evelyn hugo / the swan no. 3 / euripides (trans. anne carson) / reassurance

A year tomorrow, isnt it? Or was it today? I've lost track, at this point. Im sure it's tomorrow, though. I've done nothing but miss you for an entire year. Isnt that something? How we all yearn for someone? You're not coming back to me. I can't imagine a world where I get to run to you again. All I can do is miss you. Im not too sure why you unblocked me though. You're so odd

when you’re under a ton of stress then start to notice your memory worsen, your headaches becoming more frequent, and communication going nonexistent…

There's mold on these bones,

Vines encircling the limbs.

Flowers are blossoming all around, and yet none get to us.

Mushrooms lay in their absence, creating a crown.

Movement is hollow.

It rains, no drops reaching my lips:

For they fell off when the worms ate them.

Exhaust and wings flapping around entice my numb senses.

I stand for I can't sit. Everything identifiable has rotten off of me, including ligaments and skin.

No one can tell me she's going to come back.

Wind gushes through, yet still unwavered.

A water stream nearby makes barely a noise, too shallow.

Passersby are never the same, blank faces to never be recognized after; home lays within their town.

Begging to go back to what once was,

All I can do is listen to the nearby churches hymns.

I have so much to say,

warn people so then they would avoid the agony I endured.

If only corpses could roam.

This encapsulates everything I've ever felt, in my life. This hits so hard LOL

here is the light and the stool and the waterbottle so you can wring your hands and make a joke about your life like you are tumble-drying. here is the audience of your friends with their faces weirdly pinched just because you admitted that when you were growing up, bad things happened. when other people talk about their past, nobody flinches. when you mention the things you survived, everyone else gets uncomfortable, calls it trauma dumping. meanwhile to you it's just, like, something that happened.

you learn to sidestep it or to disguise it or to wait until it's dark out. you wait and hold the wasps nest and blink into the bright lights and then you make a joke about it. here is the joke: there is a hole in me that stays open no matter what i put into it. i have spent my life trying to make myself full and things just fall out.

and everyone loves a hole joke! how big is the hole? how wide? what does it swallow? once you disassociated with your turn signal on and it made your spiraling thoughts feel staccato, like rainfall. once when you were in the middle of a field you had the sudden thought - lightning could strike and wouldn't that just like, resolve it all?

clap your hands go to school go to work smile about it stuff yourself with this world because everyone says if you peel off the bad bits the new skin starts to show except it's been years and the uphill never stops being a slope. can you just lay down and be healed. you feel embarrassed to mention to your therapist that things are getting bad again, like you're wasting her time. like if you were really trying shouldn't you just be better. obviously you're not taking it seriously. you have to beg her to stay, worried that she will be one of the therapists that says this clearly isn't helping.

open your mouth and deliver a tight five minutes of comedy. make yourself beautiful and pleasing. you want to say im not ready but life doesn't wait for you to put your hands up so live under the boot. so never stick your tongue out hoping for snowflakes - more likely than not, god is gonna piss on you. good luck in the morning, you can't process the car crash because your whole life is an accident. nightmare kid; no matter how fast you run, you're still at the scene of the injury. elastic, you snap back to the broken rib. is this where you left your childhood? buried in somebody else's fingers.

get up on stage and do a little dance for us. get up on stage and try to language the loneliness never stops yawning but don't sound desperate or sad or yearning or wanting. sound brave and inspiring and dishonest about how badly you're hurting. call up foucault and laughingly promise that any time you talk about this you are adding disclaimers that of course peace is possible and you're so much better than you were before and the friction of your soul only sands down the sharp parts and never the tender spots and you're in therapy and you're a success story and you are neither a danger to yourself nor to others. either you are suffering just quietly enough or they lock you up. put your jazz hands up, make a spectacle out of yourself in glitter glue. you are someone's mental health month bulletin board & AI generated recovery chatbot.

you're too gentle to be a problem, but isn't that part of the difficulty. if you could just fucking talk about it. you have seen other people be helped and get what they need and be supported. something about you and the way you are - when you lose control, it's just not allowed, is the thing. it's embarrassing, not concerning. get back up on stage and finish your set. stop making us worry about it. the things that echo in you shouldn't be able to escape the bones in your head.

get back up on stage and perform like you're healthy, goddammit.

Why is art so difficult? Art block shouldn't be real, we are all made by skillful hands and minds anyways. This isn't fair 😔

Yknow, my highest weight was 118lb. I was 7th grade.

My lowest was 87lb, with my mother shoving down diet pills because she was too fat and we had to "support her through trying times".

I spent alot of my childhood pushing my body to its limits. I have torn muscles and broken bones without flinching, pushing past the pains. I was "invincible". "Invincible" meant that I wouldn't die. That I would get out of the hellhole my mother called "our home".

Its been almost 4 years since I last lived with my mother. 4 years of watching the scales. 4 years experiencing the passage of time. Surprisingly, it was forgiving. It was soft, gentle, a lovers kiss after a rough day. A father's hug after a heartbreak. A comfort. True comfort.

I've gained weight, I've lost weight, I've gained some of it back. I lost the majority of my muscle, I gained a bit of it, and now it's actively shedding.

And as i sit here, full from the Thanksgiving feast. I've realized one thing.

My body is how it should be. All things get better.

And man my girlfriend makes bombastic banana pudding pie.

Meme redraw

I kinda got too tired to put in shading effort after sugar and flour hfhfhf