alyssa꩜ .ᐟ

・❥・ learn to love yourself

[dead-as-i-tread]

about me ♡

hi i’m alyssa (19)

i romanticize everything and then get my feelings hurt about it

☆ colorado

☆ aries (march 28)

☆ infp

i feel everything a little too deeply and write it down so it doesn’t haunt me.

more about me:

☆ favorite color — plum

☆ favorite place — estes park (the stanley owns my soul)

☆ favorite season — fall

☆ favorite month — october

☆ pets - too many cats ♡ + three snakes

☆ music -

☆ films/shows —

coraline, skins uk, stranger things, IT,

the craft, black swan, edward scissorhands, girl interupted, the virgin suicides, the goonies, napoleon dynamite, scott pilgrim vs. the world, my babysitters a vampire, 8 mile, bailey sarian's murder mystery & makeup and her dark history (youtube), etc. (there's too many to write down)

☆ video games -

life is strange (the first one & before the storm), red dead redemption 2 (and undead nightmare), sims 4 & 3, it takes two, a way out, all of five nights at fready's, poppy playtime, all resident evil, silent hill, etc.

𝒎𝒚 𝒍𝒊𝒏𝒌𝒔 <3:

𝒕𝒊𝒌 𝒕𝒐𝒌: @alyssa.glo444 (main)

& @angelinlace.222 (spam)

𝒊𝒏𝒔𝒕𝒂: @alyssa.glo444 (main)

& @wander.lens.jpeg (photography & poetry page)

𝒑𝒊𝒏𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒆𝒔𝒕: @lyssa_marie07

dni if ♡

— you’re hateful (racist, sexist, homophobic, transphobic, etc.)

— you invalidate mental health or make it a joke

— you thrive on drama, negativity, or tearing people down

— you disrespect boundaries or consent

— you think kindness is weakness

this space is for softness, honesty, and mutual respect only!

and remember, stay soft. the world won’t do it for you ♡

[wholeheartedsuggestions]

you can always start making a beautiful life for yourself even if you’ve lost some years to grief. your entire life does not need to be a perfect story, and it always doesn’t have to be only good or only bad. it’s gotta be a lot of both.

[lunamonchtuna]

— Clementine Von Radics, from In A Dream You Saw A Way To Survive; "The Fear" (via lunamonchtuna)

[mournfulroses]

Georgia O’Keeffe, from a letter to Alfred Stieglitz featured in My Faraway One: Selected Letters of Georgia O'Keeffe and Alfred Stieglitz: Volume One, 1915-1933

[mournfulroses]

Sylvia Plath, from a letter to Ann Davidow-Goodman written c. 1951, featured in The Collected Letters

[mournfulroses]

Edna St. Vincent Millay, from a poem titled "Interim," featured in The Complete Poems of Edna St. Vincent Millay

[detailsofpaintings]

Jan Fyt, Still Life of Flowers with an Overturned Jug (detail)

17th century

[dead-as-i-tread]

there's something quietly painful about breakups that no one can prepare you for.

and there’s something especially cruel

about deleting photos.

not taking them down.

not hiding them.

deleting them.

because once upon a time, every blurry picture, every stupid screenshot, every bad angle in a parking lot at midnight felt important enough to save forever.

i keep remembering how after every time we hung out, we’d send each other everything.

“send me the pics.” “wait that one’s cute.” “LMFAOOO send that.”

tiny rituals. proof that we existed together.

and now i sit here erasing them one by one, like pulling teeth from a body already trying to survive.

and the worst part is— i know you probably already did it.

quickly. easily. without hovering over the delete button for twenty whole minutes first.

without reopening them. without zooming in. without grieving.

while i treated every picture like a funeral.

───

i deleted the instagram posts too.

not archived. not hidden away somewhere soft and recoverable.

gone.

and even then, i still thought: “i bet he deleted his immediately.”

like ripping me out cleanly was easier for you than carrying the reminder.

sometimes i think letting go for you was easier than ever holding on.

───

you feel dead to me now.

not in a hateful way.

in the way old houses die.

still standing, technically, but empty of the people who made them home.

i look at old pictures and genuinely do not recognize you.

it feels like staring at someone who disappeared months ago while i was still begging them to stay alive.

maybe you were already leaving long before i noticed the shift.

maybe i was loving someone already halfway gone.

───

and somehow, my body still remembers you.

i still hum our songs without realizing it.

still use your phrases. still say our inside jokes to empty rooms.

and every single time, it lands in my chest like a delayed car crash.

because i keep doing things that belong to “us” when there is no “us” anymore.

and i don’t do it because i enjoy hurting myself.

i do it because some terrified part of me doesn’t want to forget.

───

anger became easier.

anger keeps me moving.

anger lets me pretend i’m above all this.

but underneath it, there’s still this horrible question:

did seeing me fight for us not make you feel anything?

did watching me love you that deeply not shake something loose inside you?

or were you already gone by the time i started trying to save it?

───

that’s the part nobody talks about.

how heartbreak changes your nervous system.

how after enough confusion, enough distance, enough watching someone wake up one day and decide they no longer choose you—

love stops feeling safe.

now every “forever” sounds temporary.

every soft moment comes with an exit wound attached.

and i hate that.

because before this, i loved naturally.

openly. without fear.

and now i catch myself waiting for abandonment before love has even had the chance to fully arrive.

-5.18.26

[yayobabydolll]

[littlemisshelena]

[qet]

[porcelainapparition]

Estherville, Iowa

circa 1906

[faeriedustdiary]

[rivercantswim]

[goth-queen]

[disc90s]

[charnel-grounds]

“Fair Rosamund”

unidentified English pre-Raphaelite artist

oil on canvas, 19th century