[flowersfromunderground]

Be yourself so ppl looking for u can find u

[ri5k]

[sisyphusshrugged]

[beautoro2]

I circle the drain, relentless.

And still you press

shove

scrape at me with your fingertips

as if I’m just grease clinging to the pan,

as if you can claw me loose

and flush me away.

But my body refuses to dissolve.

Too solid, too stained,

a reminder lodged in the curve of your pipes,

the stench that lingers even after the bleach.

I see it

your desperation for clean,

for sterile.

You want your skin to squeak,

to be primed for the next set of hands,

the next mouth.

But how can you rid yourself of me

when I’m already curling around your ankles,

thick, black, clinging?

I rot in the grout of your shower,

I bloom mildew in the corners of your tiles.

Every time you close your eyes,

you’ll feel the slick of me still coating you,

no matter how much you scrub.

And isn’t that the truth of it

you didn’t want me,

only the use of me.

A vessel, a rag,

something to wring out and discard.

But rags stain.

Rags sour if you leave them damp.

Rags remember the shape of your hands.

I am the smell that won’t wash from your sheets.

I am the sour taste that lingers in your teeth.

Every swallow, every breath,

I swell inside you like spoiled milk.

You called me nothing

but nothing has a way of echoing,

spilling back,

flooding your spotless room

with the reminder that you are never clean,

never untouched.

I am the proof you keep trying to bury:

the bruise on your neck

you tell others is an accident,

the scratch you insist was your own hand.

Every denial

is just another way of speaking my name.

And I will not be rinsed.

Not with soap,

not with silence.

Even as you step out, towel yourself dry,

I cling in the steam,

I bead on your mirror,

I crawl into your lungs.

You can fuck me,

forget me,

throw me out with the dirty water—

but I will seep back in,

sewer-rot,

sorrow,

the taste of what you used,

the ache of what you left.

You will always be standing in me.

Up to your ankles.

Up to your throat.

Drowning in the waste you made of me.

Entry #3

[titsay]

🎃🎃🎃

[beautoro2]

I hope you’re crying over me

but I know your tears are just oil slicks,

shimmering and empty,

leaking from ducts clogged with years of false grief.

I hope your bones ache

but I know it’s from the parasites nesting there,

fat and writhing,

gnawing the marrow into mush

as they drink down every lie you ever told.

I hope when you look in the mirror, you see me

but I know it’s just to peel me open in your mind,

to strip my flesh from muscle,

wrap it over your own body like a second skin.

I know you imagine my hair tangled in your fists,

my breath in your lungs,

my pulse sewn into your wrists

as if wearing me like a stolen suit

could make you feel alive.

I hope you taste metal when you speak my name,

that the syllables hatch in your mouth,

spitting larvae down your throat

until your voice rots from the inside,

until even silence stinks of me.

I hope my absence burns through you

but I know it burrows instead,

worms chewing hallways through your gut,

carving rooms for every thought of me

you’ll never be able to evict.

And when you finally collapse—

when the swarm you’ve been feeding eats your heart hollow—

you’ll find no hand reaching for you.

You’ll dissolve into a black, wet heap,

skin sloughing off in sheets,

eyes caved in from the weight of wanting.

And I will remain—

intact, untouchable,

my laughter echoing just beyond your reach,

a sound that will live under your skin

until it splits you apart.

Journal Entry #725

[beautoro2]

You rot in your shadowed corner,

a beast gnawed raw by insatiable hunger.

Fingers trembling around bloodshot eyes,

eyes that never truly see—only devour.

You weep, a hollow wail swallowed by silence,

teeth cracked like fractured bones beneath your skin,

your forked tongue tasting decay and deceit

feasting on the remnants of broken trust.

I imagine the sick pulse beneath your touch

the slick, cold flesh of shattered innocence,

the way your fingers tear, rip, and consume,

devouring light until all that’s left

is a blackened, empty shell.

“But I see you,” you hiss like a serpent,

wrapping poison in the guise of knowing.

Your hands invaded the places meant to be sacred,

claiming dominion over what was never yours.

You twisted one night into a weapon,

wielded it to silence my scars,

to mask my trauma with your lies

a filthy, ravenous echo of power.

You wear your lies like a crown of thorns,

but I set fire to your fragile throne.

Your grip was brittle and your reign, a sham

built on fractured promises and stolen light.

I faked pleasure like a ghost trapped in your game,

moans hollow as the promises you broke.

Behind closed eyes, I screamed in silence

while you drowned in your own sickness,

blind to the nightmare you created.

And the friendship

a dark masquerade where I played the fool,

smiling while wearing armor forged of dread.

Laughed at your cruel jokes, nodded through the venom,

all while my heart cracked beneath your shadow.

Every whispered “I see you”

was a razor cutting deeper,

a trap disguised as care

and I fed your hunger, played your role,

while hiding the scars you refused to see.

But your throne

built on the bones of my silence

crumbled beneath the weight of your own lies.

I watched you fall into the void you carved,

while I rose, fierce and untouchable.

So rot in your darkened corner,

clutch your monstrous need

starve on a hunger that will never sate.

Beg for a light you can never claim

because the pieces you swallowed

were never yours to hold.

I am not broken—I am not lost.

I walked away, clear-eyed and fierce,

and now I watch you fade,

a shadow shrinking in your own decay.

You will never see me again.

Entry #674

[beautoro2]

!!!!!!!!!

😤

[beautoro2]

You call Diana “Little One”

It’s because you heard in it a movie once during your sleepless nights in the second trimester, and for some odd reason it just stuck.

The moment she came out they were the first words you spoke to her

“Hello little one. Welcome to the world.”

It was like a secret shared between the two of you only, you’re sacred nickname for her. David had ‘bubba’ and ‘princess’ and 20 other names to call your firstborn but somehow he came to the conclusion that ‘little one’ was just yours, respectfully refraining from calling her it for you. It was your phrase; a phrase you called her in the sweetest of moments.

Like when she would curl herself up on your chest at 6 months old, her heartbeat matching yours after settling against the warmth of your skin. Dozing off at your touch on the back of her scalp you whispered it against the crown of her head.

“Sleep tight little one.”

Or when she was two and approached you in a haste with her hands clasped over one another, excitement written in her cheeks.

“Momma momma look!”

You did just that, placing the watering can in hand onto the grass before bending down to reach Diana’s level.

You beamed as you spoke, “And what do you have there?”

Raising her pudgy hands closer to your face she opened them wide and revealed a blue surprise.

“Butterfly momma.” She grinned. The little insect seemed to rest comfortably in the tiny palms of your daughter, wings flapping every few seconds but making no urge to move.

Diana herself stared in awe of it, being ever so careful as she watched in bewilderment of the life on her fingers. Of course she had seen butterflies before, and every time she was astounded, but not this close—never this close.

“Daddy said let it go but she won’t.” She mumbled, eyes still in her hands.

Lips curving upwards yet again you smiled so deeply even your husband noticed it from across the yard where sat with your newborn son on his lap.

Cupping her hands in yours you made an effort to grasp her attention, eyes now meeting yours.

“I think she likes you.”

You words caused Diana to gasp, wiggling back and forth on her toes like she was going to implode from excitement.

“Special momma?”

“Yes, you are oh so special little one.”

Or the time when she was 7 and was so completely sure that she could grab a cup from a shelf out of her reach with a chair and little stretch.

That was how you found her. Kitchen chair pressed up against the counter and standing on her tippy-toes making grabby hands at plastic.

“And just what do you think you’re doing miss?”

With a pout she glanced back at you, obviously heartbroken over the fact that her tactic just wasn’t working.

“I was trying to get a cup by myself.”

Diana was on a little bit of the shorter side when it came to kids in her age group but you and David never paid any mind. It was nothing serious enough to worry about it. But it did cause little hiccups like this.

“Nothings wrong with some help.” You smirked before shuffling forward. Grabbing her by the hips you helped raised her higher until she grabbed a cup. A soft cheer slipped from her lips followed by a squeal causing you to erupt in laughter before placing her back down on to the kitchen floor.

“Thanks momma.” Diana grinned up at you. You smiled back, placing a hand on her cheek.

“And you wonder why I call you little one.”

What wasn’t expected was the fact that the nickname would carry on so far in life, Diana now being almost 15 years of age. And really it didn’t, you only caught yourself saying it in the rarest of moments—sometimes not even then.

But tonight was a little different you suppose.

The house was quiet, David upstairs in his study working on ideas for his next film, Julian drawing in his room and you and Diana sat in the living room.

You were simply passing the time by reading a book and she was sat on the opposite side of the room, eyes trained on the tv as a rerun of some show played.

It was like every other night.

That was until the tv came to a pause.

The newfound silence drew you out of your concentration, turning from the book to Diana. She was beyond the television now—instead moving from her chair all the way over to the couch to take the place beside you.

There was a soft smile on her lips as she took it upon herself to snuggle into your side.

“What are you doing?” You laughed, glancing down at her. She shrugged, tucking herself beneath your blanket and worming her way even closer.

“Nothing.”

You took her word and nodded, returning back to your book.

“Mom?”

“Hhm.”

“I love you.”

Every time Diana or Julian said those three words to you it was still like hearing it for the first time out of their mouths. A twinge of warmth hitting your chest and filling you up until you were completely content.

Every time.

“I love you more little one.”

[beautoro2]

The larger a mans penis is the more likely he is to have mostly boys so of course Ilya would have all boys my man is PACKING-🕊

someone PLEASE explain the science behind this

[beautoro2]

For Jeff daughter I was thinking either Penelope or Madeline

yeah something kinda classic

[beautoro2]

Thinking Jeff daughter would be named like Becca or something like that-🔅

I see it being something like old timey but boujee 😂

[beautoro2]

this blog is almost at a thousand followers what 😂

[beautoro2]

David constantly kisses Diana’s cheeks. He just loves showering his beautiful precious Princess with love and affection.

He would just lay her down in his lap and unconsciously do it. Like the whole room would be in the middle of a conversation and he’s just giving her kisses whilst it goes in, only pulling away to add to the conversation before decorating her flushed cheeks in more kisses.

FUCK IM READY TO REPRODUCE

[beautoro2]

ALSO I feel like Ilya would believe in old wives tales when trying to figure out the gender of your baby and literally everytime hed be right, even when you have your baby girl. at first you think its just his family genes but then he guesses that you're having twins and that they're boys based off how often you've thrown up and then you just start calling him a witch because there's no way he should have known that but yet there he is telling you while he sips a beer - ⛈

This is so true, I could totally see him do some weird witchcraft on your belly for a form of protection because he just knows

[beautoro2]

One day you forget to get something from target and you’re like “David can you get [insert item]?” and Diana wants to go with David on his little Target trip. When david is pushing her in the cart he’s like “Remember, Princess, only [Item]” and David ends up getting stuff he doesn’t need and Diana’s like “Bubba, only [Item]” she’s kinda a smartass sometimes, but in a cute way!

SOEJSOJA YES YES YES

[beautoro2]

Jeff toddler daughter taking naps Nerf would happen on regular basis.-🔅

HSISNOS YES YES YES IMMA CRY

[beautoro2]

Ok but Jeff with a little baby girl would be the best

S T O P

stop

He’d be SO PROTECTIVE.

Definitely the dad to say “Yeah she’s not dating until she’s at least 32...or I’m dead.”

His favorite thing to do when she’s a newborn is to let her sleep on his chest. It’s when he feels closest to her.

Not to mention he’d be catering to your every need after the birth. The man wouldn’t let you take a step unnecessary, making sure to do everything he could possibly do to take care of the baby that didn’t require a mother’s touch.

Uhg I just KNOW he’d be a good dad and he’d be proud of all her achievements, big and small. And unlike the others he’d keep them private, no urge to post about it or anything because it was just a moment between the three of you—not the whole world.

SOFTNENSINSK

[beautoro2]

MATT AS A DAD?!

He’s the panicky dad for sureeee.

He has the diaper bag strapped to his mf’ing chest y’all, he’s constantly prepared. But the minute that baby starts crying his adrenaline is through the roof and nOTHING ELSE MATTERS

Best believe he has shoved to people to the floor before just to rush to that baby. People have lost limbs and their lives at the sake of that child smh rip