she wants revenge 🏹 @archer-aiming-for-heart - Tumblr Blog

> the beginning of the story is a dangerous place. anything can happen.

@ póly : she/her ⸺ writer , art craver , knight , voice of rage. ( ru / eng / deu )

i'll tell you a story even if the weights on my heart are heavy. i make articles about women, write essays on my fav movies & books and just yap a lot about my fandoms.

byf & dni ( on russian ) carrd ✶ my letterboxd

bobschofield-deactivated2018101

WIKIPEDIA ARTICLE ABOUT LOVE WITH PLENTY OF CITATIONS by Bob Schofield

for flashexpresses

disgustedlyscattereddd

headphones aren't enough. i need the song to stab me in the chest

propertiesofjoy

rainer maria rilke, letters to a young poet

the first sex is not that important.

more precisely, it's important not for the reasons it's usually discussed.

age is important only if you were a child and then you matured so fast.

place is important only if it was a public humiliation that made you feel guilty about your body.

person is important only if they turned into your nightmare who smiled in response to your tears.

the first sex is not that important.

perhaps the only thing that matters is how many times it will happen again.

sometimes it determines a lot:

whether you will dream of being harassed in search of approval.

whether you will murmur «slut» while touching yourself in the bathroom.

whether you will beg your partner to slap you in the face because you only deserve it.

whether you will equate sex with violence and deny its existence in love.

whether you will look for him in strangers and expect them to grab your hand and not let go.

whether you will consider nudity dangerous, and any approach to your body is practically lethal.

so the first sex is not that important.

only if it peels off your skin with your clothes and underwear.

#my writing #txt post #short poem #female writers #my poem #writers on tumblr #writerscommunity #original poem

my winter felt like pucks and the swedish language, like snowfall nine months a year and a too small town for anything more, like a frozen lake and the warm laughter of a boy with sad eyes and a wild heart who teaches me how to skate.

#benji ovich #beartown #fredrik backman #character aesthetic

i take off

my linen shirt,

belt and wide trousers,

underwear,

hands,

wheat-colored hair,

my head heavy with thoughts,

cage of ribs,

small breasts,

ink-covered skin,

hip bone,

tired feet,

eyes so that i can't see anything else,

ears so that no sound reaches me,

my tongue so that i remain mute forever,

and finally my heart so that i do not feel.

i give it all to you.

there's nothing else left of me.

#txt post #short poem #female writers #txt #my poem #my writing #poems on tumblr #original poem #writers on tumblr #writerscommunity

i think a lot about how yoshiki felt during the period when he was trying to get over the loss of hikaru and gaining something new at the same time.

someone new.

he has a face from the past. he has the same voice, and facial expressions, and movements. but there's something subtly different. it doesn't allow yoshiki to forget: this is not hikaru.

he's frightened. of course, at first there's fear and paralyzing despair. it's pain, and grief, and helpless humility.

but there are still many, many good things in the burden of shame: it seems to be impossible to have fun of non-hikaru's laughter.

but the problem is that yoshiki feels really good with “hikaru”. over time, he behaves less and less like hikaru from before: he loves ice cream, and boring movies, and even studying. and he also says things that used to be hidden deep inside, in the most forbidden thoughts. there is an almost childlike honesty and naivety in his every action.

and yoshiki is terrified. because he lives in reality where his most beloved person is dead. and the non-human who wears his face gives yoshiki something that the real hikaru would never have dared to do.

#the summer hikaru died #tshd #hikaru tshd #tshd yoshiki #yoshikaru #txt post #tshd manga

a marriage proposal is not enough for me, promise me that you will fasten your armor on me when i lead the army, promise me that you will command to mix our ashes so that you can meet me in the underworld again.

#the song of achilles #madeline miller #patrochilles #achilles #patroclus

vamplire

if you see me getting manipulated by a beautiful vampire do not intervene, i am right where i want to be.

this is the place where my soul found peace.

#south korea #seoul

i've never had such a spiritual unity with a book as it happened with “ my friends ” by fredrik backman which i bought at a local bookstore in seoul and read at the shanghai airport during a 16-hour night transfer surrounded by people sleeping in chairs and unable to look up from the page.

#fredrik backman #my friends #books and reading

hey! this is my blog in the mountains

@ seoul | march, 2026

#south korea #road trip #seoul

saintfelina

women in GLAM (Galleries, Libraries, Archives and Museums)

date idea: i tell you my sins, you sharpen your knife offering me that deathless death.

#hozier #lyrics #take me to church #love quotes #indie music

we are made of love.

we're made of the gentle touch of mother's fingers, who braided our hair before going to kindergarten.

we're made of the sleepy mumbling of father, who fell asleep on the floor next to our crib when we had nightmares.

we're made of pancakes with jam prepared especially for us by grandma early in the morning. and we're made of grandpa's quick-witted tasks, which always ended in fooling around.

we're made of shared games and conversations at night with sister and the first concessions for a little brother.

we are made of love.

it's in the eyes of our first school friend who teaches us how to do a flip on a horizontal bar.

it's on a trip late at night to pick up a stray dog we fell in love with from one blurred photo in the newspaper.

it's in the first interest that will become our full-fledged hobby.

it's in every book we reread under the light of the desk lamp and in every cartoon we couldn't take our eyes off.

we are made of love.

it's in our first crush we don't know what to do with.

it's in the secrets that we can't share and in the thoughts that we try to find explanations for everywhere.

it's in romantic sympathy, and friendly, and related, and almost completely unfamiliar.

we are made of love.

sometimes it means that we are also made up of pain and anxiety, loss and sorrow. after all, our attachment is so strong that we simply drown in the dark with a broken thread.

but this is also love. love breaks us down and brings us back to life.

we are made of love.

love is a flame in our chest.

love is the waves on our skin.

love is a sprout that grows through our ribs and we must give it a little light, time and warmth of our palms.

i don't know what will happen to our world in the future,

but as long as we are made of love,

as long as we create out of love,

as long as we speak, and do, and listen, and stay, and laugh, and share, and sacrifice, and cry, and forgive, and believe — out of love,

we have something significant to start tomorrow for.