[icaseybaybee]

[cocksvintage]

[thurst-thurst-thurst]

melting

[eastsid-e]

[karijote]

[fixyourwritinghabits]

I reblogged one of these but this one is even better.

[fire-fira]

Here’s your reminder that the US doesn’t have an official language.

[sthound]

link to the 2014 original

What Language Does Your State Speak?

Last month, I wrote about the fun and the pitfalls of viral maps, a feature that included 88 super-simple maps of my own creation. As a foll

And a link to more recent data from 2024, though it’s raw numbers not a graphic

Explore Census Data

[johnny-depp-is-loved]

Love when animals just

[adabpic]

[ruinedchildhood]

[guulabii]

i think love is revolutionary because when done right, it allows for accountability, for growth, for healing, for laughter, for joy, for connection, for touch, for coming home. maybe it is foolish of me, even a little stupid to think of it as such but when done right, when honoured, when fulfilled, when prepared and boiled and served well, it truly does magic, it truly changes lives, it nourishes, it feeds, it gives hope, hope, so much of it.

[achillesinhighheels]

[kcmcus]

Man and Trees, Florida by John Singer Sargent (1856-1925).

[blk-achillean]

Ship me,

ride me,

take your toll, love.

Lead me down a windy street,

ruffle up my feathers,

unwrap me slowly—

let your hands linger

where I ache for you most.

And I’ll still

capture your ugly and your pretty,

and I’ll still

see your deceit and your dreams,

and I’ll still

navigate the heat of you,

the chaos that pulls me deeper.

So guide my hands,

let them trace the belly of the beast,

let them stir the fire you buried.

Keep your hair reachable,

for fingers desperate to pull you closer,

as your back slips under me—

as I slip inside you,

into the place where we are weightless,

where your body sings for mine.

Hold your breath.

Let me carry you to the edge,

where your skin burns for me,

where your cries cut through the silence—

then breathe,

and let me drown in the sound of you.

Dance with me in the rain,

let it soak through us,

let it cling to your skin

the way my lips will.

Be reckless with me—

press your body into mine,

fall.

And I’ll still

capture you by the waistline,

steady you when you shiver,

teetering between surrender and demand.

And I’ll still

pilot you through an abyss of purpose,

knowing my purpose is the taste of you.

Heartbreak and loyalty—

I carry them both,

and I’ll still

dream of you from afar,

of an us that leaves marks too deep to heal.

Take your toll, love,

again and again.

Make me yours,

make me stay.

And I’ll still

love you,

hard and whole,

in every gasp,

in every touch,

in every way.

[blk-achillean]

paint me croissants and coffee on a slow morning to miss you

once i was afraid of missing you-

i dipped my toes in the ocean,

the sand had wrapped its permanence between my crevices,

i found gravity afar,

sunken, lifted, sunken, lifted,

i remember a painting you once gave me as your poet,

it was a paint that captured your woes in rhyme,

told me your dreams in song,

gave me your hopes in a lullaby,

and tied me into a ribbon to be your shoulder’s friend.

i won’t guide you through this life’s roads,

but a happy small detour of time well spent,

even if this dries up and withers,

we’ll remember the smell of love off canvas,

like croissants and coffee on a slow morning.

though, you’re no longer here.

[blk-achillean]

This mantra feels strange this season,

a year of mourning wrapped in pine-scented hope,

life’s consequences stung, but still—

the air brims with something softer.

I see the first flicker of Christmas lights,

their glow bleeding into dusk.

The cheer hums faintly,

a pumpkin-spiced universe unfurls,

thanks, Starbucks.

At the mall today,

trees of pine wore crimson bells,

Santa held little humans close,

their wishes whispered like sacred secrets.

“Happy holidays,” I said,

but it was only to myself.

Your reply came in a snore through Facetime,

a strong, melanated roar of maybe.

Maybe life is a fight best fought with love at your side.

Maybe forgiveness comes with a thread of forgetfulness.

Maybe today can be holy,

if we let it.

Will you forgive me?

I want to hear your snore forever,

feel your laughter echo where silence once stood.

And when we’re ghosts,

will you haunt Christmas with me?

Let’s linger by the lights,

their warmth melting away

what hurt we’ve carried too long.

Let’s dance into the night,

hands full of love,

hearts brimming with companionship.

Let’s throw the happiest of holidays

this season—please.

Because maybe love doesn’t wait for tomorrow to be holy.

Maybe it’s already here,

if we choose to see it.

[blk-achillean]

write your life’s story in poetry

let it flow in and then out.

[balenciagaboner]

‘Icarus’ by Francois Rosseau

[miseducatedmelanicmuse]