Happy Pride Fuck The Police

I keep forgetting what I’m doing in the middle of doing it. Keep walking into a room only to go in circles confused. Boxes are half-packed. An old sweater is evidence in a case I can’t close. Smells like spring sweat and laundry detergent and nights I didn’t cry. Smells like someone else’s life. I fold it, I unfold it. Sit on the floor and let the carpet burn into my skin until I remember who I am. I made a home here. Multiplying myself by one; I'm the exact same number but a process has occurred. 

Moving in for the summer. To the house with the hole in the door and the woman with the tongue of a snake. The walls listen. Time has passed and new people love me. 

I want to be a lighthouse. A warning and a welcome. I know my existence is temporary. And so is yours. The fact that we eventually gave parts of ourselves to people who may only be passing through our life is even more absurd than the fact that I can still recall a stranger’s favorite movie from years ago. It’s true what they say; a place is only as good as the people in it. I miss you. 

I quit smoking two weeks ago. But the craving still curls in my throat like something half-alive. My lungs taste like promises I don’t want to make, I can't keep. A ritual, in lullaby. Warning signs I keep ignoring. A ghosted friend, it’s waiting for you to come back home. Maybe healing isn’t healing, maybe you just learn to carry your rot more quietly. You are not who you were last november. You’re safe; it’s only change. 

You walk through the world reading patterns like omens. Separate harm from hurt, sickness from survival. Studying monsters or trying to understand your parents. I’m both the predator and the prey, I’ll catch myself then eat myself whole.

I’m nineteen. Which means I know everything and nothing at the same time; an apology, an excuse. The universe is an ongoing explosion. That’s where you live. In an explosion. We absolutely don’t know what living is. Sometimes atoms just get very haunted. That’s us. When an explosion explodes hard enough, dust wakes up and thinks about itself. And writes about it too, apparently.

Sometimes I lie to my therapist because I don’t want her to think it’s getting bad again. Sometimes I cry while doing the dishes because the clinks means someone is throwing them. My ribs are setting wrong in my body. How did that sweet little girl turn into this horrid creature? everything is better when it’s private.

In the middle of becoming. I keep dreaming about the idea of home. blankets and fairy lights and spotify rain playlists and the soft. There’s something soft in me that refuses to die. It is almost time that I change shape again. It’s out of my control.

I don’t mind the walk.

It’s summer and I’m getting better. hopefully. Dandelions are starting to swell at my feet, seas going over hills. I've missed the yellow. The wishes of childhood. where had it been all this time?

haha. You did irreparable damage btw

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Does anyone know that unexplainable sickish feeling where you're not really sick and you don't really have a headache but you just feel wrong and you can't get comfortable or find something that you're really into but you kinda feel too ill to sleep or eat it's like your body is saying "I don't know what I want you to do but this isn't it"

speaking of childhood trauma it's crazy how dabi and hawks both had a violent father and an absent mother growing up like they both felt so unprotected, which is why hawks becomes this hyperinderpendent mature 22yo guy and dabi becomes his own vengeful angel

Don't become so afraid of being annoying that you don't allow yourself to be anything at all.

Hallow

Inspired by ‘Abstract Basketry’ by Fujino Kazutomo

being touch-starved [mother issues] and being touch-repulsed [father issues] at the same time

Because what are fruits but symbols of greed, and love, and humanity

Blackberry Picking, Seamus Heaney// @noquietrevolution//@vampireapologist // Oranges, Gary Soto // We Are Okay, Nina LaCour // Twitter user super_smasha// @inkskinned