⊹₊⟡⋆ 𝐢 𝐰𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐞 𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞𝐬
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blake kathryn

@theartofmadeline

oozey mess
🪼

pixel skylines
Three Goblin Art
tumblr dot com
Misplaced Lens Cap
ojovivo
2025 on Tumblr: Trends That Defined the Year
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I'd rather be in outer space 🛸

Andulka
KIROKAZE
"I'm Dorothy Gale from Kansas"

Janaina Medeiros
NASA
AnasAbdin
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@greygaunt
⊹₊⟡⋆ 𝐢 𝐰𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐞 𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞𝐬
I know I'm not the first person to observe this, but banishment is a hell of a funny punishment. I now sentence you to fuck off. I don't care where, just get out of my sight. Go on. Git.
GET OUT (2017) dir. Jordan Peele SINNERS (2025) dir. Ryan Coogler
When you see it, REBLOG IT.
Depression Hotline: 1-630-482-9696
Suicide Hotline: 1-800-784-8433
LifeLine: 1-800-273-8255
Trevor Project: 1-866-488-7386
Sexuality Support: 1-800-246-7743
Eating Disorders Hotline: 1-847-831-3438
Rape and Sexual Assault: 1-800-656-4673
Grief Support: 1-650-321-5272
Runaway: 1-800-843-5200, 1-800-843-5678, 1-800-621-4000
Exhale: After Abortion Hotline/Pro-Voice: 1-866-4394253
If you ever want to talk: My Tumblr ask is always open.
trans suicide prevention hotline: 877-565-8860
𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐬𝐭 𝐤𝐞𝐩𝐭 𝐬𝐞𝐜𝐫𝐞𝐭
We never talked about it.
That’s the problem. That’s always been the problem.
It happened on a night that didn’t feel like it was meant to matter, a typical Friday. Friends gathered in a pub after the work week, pound coins on pool tables and mottled mint at the bottom of glasses. Soggy beer mats. Too many drinks, the pavements slick with rain, laughter spilling out of us like a tapped beer bottle. We weren’t being careful anymore.
The walk home was euphoric. Grey drizzle, concrete, ash. Damp cigarettes and splashing in puddles as we stumbled. The alcohol-steeped laughter swirling around us with cigarette smoke in tandem. The flick of your lighter, the wool of your coat, the light coating of misty rain on your forehead, the crinkles near your eyes as you laughed, pupils wide under the influence.
One minute we were sitting too close on the sofa, knees touching, soft leather groaning, damp air and a discarded cigarette burning in the ash tray. The next minute your mouth was on mine and your hands were dancing to the beat of an old song down my spine.
After, you stayed.
You snored. You took ownership of the duvet. Our scents mingled and yours lingered. Melted its way into my furniture like a greasy mark.
After, you made me a cup of tea like it meant something. Like the alcohol and smog had faded and you could see.
And then; nothing.
No conversation. No aftermath. No agreement on what that night turned us into. No acknowledgement. No white flag. Just, nothing.
We still see each other. Still text. Still share space like we didn’t cross a line that shifted things. We share friends, we share drinks, we share smiles. You sit beside me on trains, legs angled away just enough to feel deliberate, like mine weren’t wrapped around your hips. I catch you watching my hands when I talk, then looking away like you’ve been caught. Shameful. Longing. Like you were missing them tangled in your hair, or running down your back.
Every interaction between us feels rehearsed. Careful. Brittle. Regimented.
I don’t know what I’m allowed to ask for.
Sometimes I want to reach for you, to trace the art on your arm, to nudge your knee, to feel the place on your back I already marked. But I don’t. I’m terrified of finding out that night meant more to me than it did to you. That I’ve been carrying something you’ve already thrown away. A shrug of the shoulders and a flick of the ash.
You’re no better.
You go oddly formal with me, like you’re afraid one wrong word will expose you. A slip of the mask. You ask if I’m “alright” in that distant, almost professional way, like you’re checking in on a colleague instead of the person you undressed weeks ago. A nod, a gesture of a cigarette. Leaning against the doorway of the local, hand in the pocket of that stupid wool coat. It’s raining again. For fuck’s sake.
But then you do things that undo me.
You still walk me to the station, shoulders brushing. You still remember how I have my coffee. You still look relieved when I show up, like something in you settles without permission. A drink already on the table for me, a pound on the pool table. Old friends. Is that allowed?
Once, when someone flirted with me at the bar, your jaw tightened so hard I thought it might crack. Like a loaded rifle. Things unsaid ricocheting around like ammunition breaking glass.
We never mention it.
So the silence grows teeth.
I lie awake at night replaying it. Like a rat on a wheel. Letting it fall about my mind, like ripped up paper. Not the sex, not really, but the moments after. The way you went quiet, thoughtful. The way you brushed your thumb over my knuckles like you were grounding yourself. The way it felt like we’d grasped something we didn’t know how to hold. The way you brushed my hair out of my face and kissed me, the taste of beer between us. Your Fred Perry on the floor, sacrilege. That fucking wool coat, hanging on my wardrobe door.
I want to ask you what we are.
I want to ask if you felt it too.
I want to ask if this limbo is temporary or if this is all I get. The routine of pubs, pool, pints. Rain, awkward laughter and shared glances. Cabs being called instead of walking me home.
But every time I open my mouth, the words don’t come out. Like I take a drag of the cigarette you give me and the smoke never shows.
Because what if I ruin it?
What if naming it ends it?
You seem stuck in the same place. I can see it in how you hesitate before replying, how you pull back just as things get warm. A pair of boots I can’t wear in. Like you’re hovering over a line you’re afraid to cross again, not because you didn’t like it, but because you liked it too much.
We’re both pretending it’s normal.
It’s not.
It’s killing me in small, respectable ways. In the way I stare at my phone after every message. In the way my chest tightens when you take too long to reply. In the way I feel ridiculous for missing something that never officially existed. Overthinking our routine, like you buying me a beer when you’ve done it every Friday for years. Every joke, every touch.
It’s killing you too; I see it when you go quiet mid-conversation, like you’re arguing with yourself. Very Jekyll and Hyde of you. When you almost say something and swallow it back down, like bile. Would it really be that bad? When you look at me like you’re trying to decide whether the risk is worth it.
Neither of us make the first move. Stuck on the platform, not getting on or off the train. Stood in the pouring rain.
So we stay here, suspended between before and after, pretending the ground isn’t giving way beneath us. I can’t call you a friend. It tastes bad in my mouth, like the beer can you ashed in. Like a thorn in my side.
Some nights, when we part ways outside my building or yours, there’s a moment where it feels like we might finally talk. The cats out of the bag. Finally admit that this limbo is unbearable. That not knowing is worse than rejection.
But then you say something. The casual chit chat.
And I let you.
We walk away carrying the same unspoken question, lodged in both our throats:
What are we doing?
Bravery has never lived comfortably between us.
So instead, we linger.
And it hurts.
And we call it nothing.
You’re still stuck in my teeth.
Big up my favourite song from Kid Kapichi’s latest album for tickling the writers block.
Me listening to my tunes. My songs
He stood there in the mirror, pulling at his waistline. He'd look, then turn, silently staring at his stomach before turning again, trying to suck it in this time.
Simon had been worried something like this would happen.
"Si, where are you baby?" He heard his wife call, hearing her feet padding down the hallway.
He scrambled to pull his shirt back on over his head, wedging it on and around his shoulders, only able to get it halfway before Y/N pushed open the door to their bedroom.
"There you are." She hummed, walking over to him.
Lee Pace as Evan McCone in The Running Man (2025)
Soldier, Poet, King
Stephen King writing, "Just keep dancing with me like this, Garraty, and I'll never tire. We'll scrape our shoes on the stars and hang upside down from the moon" at the goddamn age of 18-19 between two boys is actually INSANE.
What do you MEAN he wrote such a beautifully complex and painful queer love story as a TEENAGER???
"google ai" "spotify ai dj" "ai assistant" "enhanced by ai" what if i just start beating people over the head with a rock
Connor 😮💨
i keep coming back to this i’m literally haunted
Connor 😮💨