listening to Red Hot Chili Peppers
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Jules of Nature

if i look back, i am lost
wallacepolsom
AnasAbdin
Keni
Today's Document

@theartofmadeline
Lint Roller? I Barely Know Her

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Love Begins

Kaledo Art
dirt enthusiast
"I'm Dorothy Gale from Kansas"
cherry valley forever
h

Andulka
🪼

titsay
styofa doing anything
seen from Hungary
seen from Belarus

seen from United States

seen from Canada

seen from United States

seen from Malaysia
seen from Argentina

seen from Canada
seen from United States

seen from Malaysia
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seen from Canada
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seen from Netherlands

seen from Malaysia
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seen from Peru
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@apoetwithaproblem
listening to Red Hot Chili Peppers
🍬
side wound realness
listening to Britney 💞
do you think we’ll be in love forever?
listening to Father John Misty
me + loml
pink is IN for 2025 also tools and baseball bats
Reese Witherspoon for The Face Dec 1998
listening to Gwen Stefani
why was this not in my size 😭💔
listening to sports car
an ache like a swallow that leaves a lump in your throat
an ache like a rug with the corners folded under
i'll know it like geography
each pit and ragged valley
i've studied the maps of each discomfort
each ache like a dull itch beneath my flesh and behind my eyes
an ache like a still life worshiped by flies
Grief bubbles over like an unwatched pot of water. I look away, walk away for a moment, and everything I'd guarded under trained eye leaks over the edge in waves that swallow me in froth. See, I'd started developing an ache in my neck from craning over that steaming pot, stirring the broth gently. Because grief doesn't simply stop, it slowly rotates like a sprig of rosemary on the surface. My hands were chaffed from holding the wooden spoon; my eyes were filled with stinging aromas. I stepped back saying "I deserve this." I turned away whispering, "I can rest from this."
A watched pot never boils, but a left pot drowned me. I feel the scalding liquid at the back of my throat threatening to push down my last wall. I have no choice but to drink it in, past what feels like my fill. Have I ever known what enough is? I'm starving myself of my own self—I never take in as much as I am. I take the steamed joys and bottled gratitudes, but I shove aside this bowl. Swallowing my grief takes a chasm. Stomaching it takes a gully. I have to carve a path for it, eroding my walls just enough to let the grief trickle in. But there's the critical moment, where it threatens to overflow. Like a bubbled over pot, it teases the edge, and I've never drank this much in all my life. There is no final gulp for a long time, but the aftertaste is of rosemary.