Coyote’s Thoughts

Diary entries of my real life experiences

[thehopefulquotes]

“Once, I saw a bee drown in honey, and I understood.”

— Nikos Kazantzakis, Report to Greco

[hustlerodent]

I will strongly deny it if they ask me but I always wanted to be treated like a princess..

[reverie-quotes]

Like an orchid, you let yourself be picked. You got tangled up in me. I grew attached to you. I thought that I knew where you were headed and that you knew my roots, my strength, my weaknesses. We could grow together, each flowering in our own way. But you cast the first unexpected bud to the ground, without considering that it also contained part of me.

— Astrid Roemer, On a Woman's Madness

[leonardospoetry]

After years posting my poems here on Tumblr, I got a book published!

The Secret Name of Things is available on Amazon.

[leonardospoetry]

Something's gonna break one way or another

[leonardospoetry]

After a few years posting here on Tumblr, I finally got a book published!

The Secret Name of Things is a collection of poetry and it's available on Amazon.

[astrol0gyhoe]

"To the Ones Who Called Me Too Much"

I learned to speak in lowercase
because you flinched when I spoke in bold.
You called me annoying
and I swallowed that word whole—
let it ferment in the soft of my chest
until it turned into silence.

You laughed when I was loud,
but not the right kind of loud.
Not popular girl loud, not main character loud.
I was background noise
in a classroom where
you wanted music, not static.

I was a frequency
you didn’t know how to tune into.

But here's what you didn't see:
My mind moved fast.
Faster than my mouth could catch up.
So when I spoke too much,
it was because my thoughts were sprinting
and I didn't want to leave them behind.

You called me weird
because I noticed too much.
The way the teacher's hands trembled
when she passed back tests.
The crack in your voice
when you said you were "fine."
The truth behind things
people wished I hadn’t seen.

I used to shrink myself to fit
into your lukewarm approval,
until I realized
you were just uncomfortable
with anything not lukewarm.

I am fire.
Not for burning, but for forging.
And you—
you were water trying to put me out
because no one ever taught you
how to sit in heat without boiling.

So to the ones who called me too much,
too loud, too dramatic, too intense:
Maybe I was.
But I was also alive.
And that scared the hell out of you.

I’m not sorry for being flame.
I’m just sorry you never learned to warm your hands.

-R.M.

[thoughtkick]

“The things we’ve done stay with us.”

— Colleen Hoover, This Girl

[stay-close]

“You were unsure which pain is worse - the shock of what happened or the ache for what never will.”

— Simon Van Booy, Everything Beautiful Began After

[coyoterwrites]

🫥

[coyoterwrites]

🫳🏼

[neckkiss]

Albert Camus

[stay-close]

“If f you’re not tough it’s hard to survive in this world; and if you’re not kind then you don’t deserve to survive.”

— Raymond Chandler

[coyoterwrites]

I always kept my hair short. Not for fashion, not for ease—but because of an old folk tale I once heard: trauma lives in the hair. That every inch holds memory, that every snip lightens the weight we carry. So I cut mine often. Chopped it back the moment it started to brush my neck. It was my ritual. My release. A quiet way to shed what I couldn’t speak out loud.

Then one morning, my son—barefoot and still wrapped in his cartoon blanket—looked up at me and said, “Mom, will you grow your hair out? I’ve never seen you with long hair.” His eyes were so gentle. So curious. Not demanding, just… hoping.

And in that moment, something in me shifted. I realized healing doesn’t always have to be about letting go. Sometimes, it’s about holding on—to what matters most.

So here I am. Growing it out for the first time. Not because the trauma is gone, but because his smile is worth more than the weight I used to cut away.

[coyoterwrites]

“There is a weight on my chest that no hands can lift, a silence in my mind that no words can break. I am trapped between the need to scream and the inability to speak, lost in a storm where every path disappears before I can take a step.”

[sweatermuppet]

therapy can't replace getting so angry alone in your room you feel lightheaded

[anakinsafterlife]

"When I decided to wage holy war, it looked very much like staring at my bedroom floor."

--Florence and the Machine, Girls Against God

[coyoterwrites]

Part 1:

High Hopes and Space Probes

So there I was, outside, absolutely baked out of my mind, staring at the stars like they owed me rent. The night sky was doing its usual thing—quiet, sparkly, mysterious—and I was having one of those deep, why-are-we-here moments. You know, the kind that only hit after three bong rips and a long day of procrastinating real life.

And then I saw it.

A tiny light, cruising across the sky all smooth and confident. Probably a satellite, right? But then my brain was like, hold up, Chanel. What if it’s not a satellite? What if that’s, like, aliens? What if they’re just chilling up there, watching me butcher “reality” with every inhale?

That’s when the paranoia-slash-curiosity spiral began.

In my head, the light stops. Full brakes, no signal. And suddenly, it’s not just a twinkle anymore—it’s descending. Quick. And it’s bright. My chest tightens, and my brain’s like, You’re about to meet extraterrestrials, sis. Better act cool.

Then—boom. Spaceship. Not even subtle. This thing just materializes out of nowhere and parks itself right there, like the universe decided I was on the VIP list.

The door slides open, all dramatic and glowing. I’m frozen, gripping the bong like it’s a magical talisman that’ll save me. Then he steps out.

Okay, he. I don’t even know what to call him because this dude is giving main character energy. He’s not your typical alien—the gray, big-headed kind from low-budget documentaries. Nah, my guy is shimmering, like his whole body’s made of holographic glitter. And his eyes? Whew. They’re like mini universes swirling around, each one telling me, Yeah, I know all your secrets, Chanel.

He doesn’t talk—at least, not with words. Instead, I feel his voice in my head, which is kind of rude because I wasn’t ready for him to just hop into my thoughts uninvited.

“You’ve been waiting for this,” he says.

I blink, confused. “Um, waiting for what? My SHEIN order?”

He doesn’t laugh. Aliens, apparently, don’t do humor. Instead, he steps closer, and the air around him buzzes like the universe itself is hyped he showed up. “Dolores Cannon was right,” he continues, like I’m supposed to immediately connect the dots. “Other lives, other dimensions—it’s all real. You know this, don’t you?”

And honestly, I kind of do. Dolores Cannon was my jam. Her books? Life-changing. But hearing it confirmed by a space dude standing in my backyard was a whole new level of what-the-actual-hell.

“You’re not just this body,” he says, all profound. “You’re an infinite being, connected to everything. And now, your suffering ends.”

The way he says it, all serious and cosmic, makes me want to cry, but also maybe laugh because, like, what suffering? My only problem right now is deciding between sushi or ramen for my post-bong munchies.

But before I can say anything, he lifts his hand—or whatever aliens call hands. It’s glowing, pulsing, like he’s about to gift me some kind of galactic superpower. “Come with me,” he says. “To a place of light. Of understanding. You’re ready to know the truth.”

And suddenly, I’m floating.

Like, literally floating. The grass, the Earth, my whole backyard—it’s all falling away, and I’m just… drifting. The stars are so close now, I can feel their light brushing against me, warm and alive. It’s like the universe is giving me a hug.

The alien reaches for me, his galaxy-eyes locking onto mine. I’m about to take his hand and ascend to whatever enlightened alien paradise he’s got planned when—

CLUNK.

The bong tips over, and just like that, I’m back.

I’m not floating. I’m not in a spaceship. I’m sitting on the couch on my balcony, my hoodie pulled up over my head, staring at the sky like a stoner cliché. The only thing in the air is the smell of burnt weed, and the only light is a satellite, lazily drifting across the horizon.

I burst out laughing, so hard I almost choke. “Girl,” I whisper to myself, wiping tears from my face. “You need to chill.” My imagination is out here doing full laps around reality, and I’m just along for the ride.

But still, as I pack another bowl (because obviously, I didn’t learn my lesson), I glance at the sky again.

What if it wasn’t just my imagination? What if he’s still out there, waiting for me to be a little less high and a little more ready?

I blow out a cloud of smoke and grin. “Your move, glitter guy.”