🌹Lover, Beware🥀

here resides who i was, who I am, and who I could be "To die would be an awfully big adventure."

[gayvampyr]

god i love women

[pour-tu]

I want to feel beautiful again

[timbllr]

[akhunty-deactivated20240130]

IF YOURE EGYPTIAN AND LGBTQ+ GET OFF ANY QUEER DATING SITES, THE POLICE ARE TRACKING AND HUNTING PEOPLE DOWN AGAIN. DELETE YOUR ACCOUNTS.

[salty-red-mage]

This is very real.

https://www.google.com/amp/s/www.nbcnews.com/feature/nbc-out/amp/human-rights-groups-urge-egypt-halt-crackdown-gays-n806641

[sparkhelpful-deactivated2024022]

I DON’T CARE IF YOU HAVE ONLY ONE FOLLOWER PLEASE EVERYONE REBLOG THIS!!!

[sparkhelpful-deactivated2024022]

THIS POST IS SCEDULED TO GO UP ONCE AN HOUR ON THIS BLOG UNTIL 24 HOURS SINCE THE FIRST POST BECAUSE IT’S THAT IMPORTANT THAT EVERYONE SEES IT!

[milo-does-a-discourse-deactivat]

!!!!!!¡!!!

@eleanor-hates-pedos @anti-pedo-patrol @anti-cgl-moana @anti-ddlg-inc

[anti-pedo-patrol]

FOR MY FOLLOWERS!!!!

[the-cottonball-system-blog]

Stay safe everyone!!

-A

[writing-prompt-s]

This is one of the reasons why I always reblog this post on VPNs

[timbllr]

[inscrutablethoughtsss-deactivat]

Love will be the death of me.

[inkskinned]

i wonder where we learn it. today my student asked me how much i’d pay for a lunch.

i joked, “i have no money”. 

he looked at me and said, “i have 10 dollars in coins i collected over the last year.” 

i said, “that’s a lot! you must have done a lot of collecting.”

he said, “if you don’t have money, you can have half of it.”

i said, “you worked hard for it, it belongs to you.”

and this second grade boy. eagle eyed. does excellent drawings. looks at me and says, “it doesn’t mean anything if i know my friends don’t have anything when i do.”

i wonder where we learn it, is all. 

i went home and made a donation. it’s not much. it’s not half. i can’t afford that; it all goes to student loans and gasoline. 

but it is something.

[inkskinned]

like, i know i’d be bored if i wasn’t doing anything. but i also wish i didn’t have to work. i also wish the weekend was longer. that i had more time with my family. that i didn’t spend saturdays running around doing the things i didn’t have time for during the week. that i didn’t have so many things “i’d like to do” that i push off until they evaporate. like, i wish i felt rested and happy. but if i don’t work i don’t have the money to pay off the things i need, much less do the things i want to. i get up every morning to afford living just so that one day i can die in slightly less debt. im so tired on weekends that i rarely do anything. i just sit at home and think: god, monday is coming. 

i balance my checkbook. i balance too-tired and too-poor. i balance my health versus my one stretch goal. i fall asleep without working out. i work out instead of eating. i eat instead of sleeping. i wake up. i don’t want to go to work. 

but it’s not really about the wanting.

[handslikeheartache]

This reminds me a lot that life didn’t have to be this way. It shouldn’t have to be so hard. I shouldn’t be waiting for a reason to forgive my parents for giving birth to me, but here i am.

We could’ve had any world, any world at all. And we chose this. We let this happen.

[backshelfpoet]

The Kiss // Gustav Klimpt

[handslikeheartache]

Jan 26, 2018

It’s been a long six months. I got out of a relationship, worked my ass off and then quit my job so i could move back home. I made my young adult crush finally look at me, but what was meant to be a one-night-stand on a very dark street mate at night turned into three months of me just wanting to pull all my hair out and still look “pretty”. My ex still thinks she can talk to me (it’s my own fault, i pulled that bullshit “we can still be friends” card and she fucking called me on it). This was not the start to the year i wanted. I feel like everything I’m doing is in slow motion. I’m supposed to want things, want them enough to go out and get them, but i can’t fathom the thought of getting out of bed. I think i need help.

[inkskinned]

“you don’t know how to use ctrl-z?” i couldn’t help my smile. her nails are short but colored pretty. she’s chewing one again, staring at microsoft word. she always wears the nicest dresses. 

“you’re a tutor,” she says, “not a judgement person.” “currently filling both positions,” i tell her. i make a note to write her up a card of handy keyboard shortcuts. she types with one finger, pecking away. it is my favorite half-hour of every day. 

“you’re sure you’re only a year older than i am?” i ask, not for the first time. a blush spreads across her face. “you’re not ninety?” i ask, because i love watching her smile, and the way she fights the smile down.

“shut up,” she says, “help me write the essay.”

in a week from this, i will catch her in the corner of the library on a laptop, quickly typing with all of her fingers while sipping an iced starbucks idly. 

when she sees me, she freezes before smiling. “guess you did a good job teaching,” she says, standing, “i’m cured, magically.” her voice is low. 

“i made you this,” i hold up the laminated card. why is my hand shaking. “a cheatsheet for keyboard keys.” why did that sound like i just learned words for the first time. i am a public embarrassment.

she takes it. when her warm hands meet mine, she doesn’t pull away. we stand there, two people holding a useless card between us. 

“you illustrated it,” she whispers. “how long did this take you?”

i don’t say anything. i don’t want to tell her that this was my 17th draft of the thing, that i had spent hours worried that she wouldn’t like it or would be offended. i don’t know why we’re still standing there, holding it, our hands touching. 

she steps closer. she smells good, but i feel like that’s a weird thing to think about someone, so i try to put it out of my head. like it’s weird to notice her faint nude lipstick or how the pink of her dress brings out the color of her dark skin or how her eyes are so big and brown and stunning. 

“are you really failing english?” my voice cracks a little.

she grins. “i am not taking english,” she whispers, “i’m a biochem major and i finished my gen eds.” 

i don’t say anything. i look up at her. her free hand comes up to my chin. she’s so warm. so gentle. i feel my heart escaping my ribs.

“sorry,” she says, “i don’t need a tutor, but i would like a girlfriend.” 

“i can fill both positions,” i blurt, and then feel myself blush the darkest red. 

she leans in. “trust me,” she breathes, “I’m counting on it.”

[bostonpoetryslam]

i was somewhere between bodies, my own & others. i was far enough away from home to never be found again.

Siaara Freeman, “When I Bite My Tongue I Think of the Year I Was Addicted to Xanax,” published in Cahoodaloodaling (via bostonpoetryslam)

[tylerknott]

Let’s be like the birds, fly off in search of the warmth, then return with it.

Daily Haiku on Love by Tyler Knott Gregson

(via tylerknott)

[handslikeheartache]

When i was younger, a list of things that made me angry was full of bulletpointed concepts:

-school lunches

-American education system

-small/fake pockets in girls jeans

-sexism in clothing

-whatever i was become as a human being

-Armen from Bio

Now, it’s a list of names.

-you

-you

-Trump

-you

-you

-you

-you

-you

-that one fucker

-you

[handslikeheartache]

Dec 23, 2017

You say you won’t choose sides, but not choosing sides is, in fact, choosing a side. I’ve paid enough attention this year to know that not choosing a side could mean choosing the side of the oppressor. It’s how rapists go free, when the entire court has gaslighted their victim into self doubt.

It’s easy to say something as ignorant as “I’m not choosing sides,” when nothing’s happened to you. You’re just a bored juror who would rather be anywhere but here.

What’s scary is you saying “I’m not choosing sides, but if i had to i wouldn’t choose yours. Just because you asked.” She set my house on fire and all I ask is you take away her matches. Instead you shrug and hand her your lighter. It wasn’t your house that burned down.

The truth is I’m not asking you to take sides. Im asking if you’ll comfort me when i leave the room he’s in because I’m not ready to face him. Or will you lock me in a hallway full of their smiling faces because it wasn’t your heartbroken loneliness at 2am who’s hands were just out of reach of being capable of fixing anything.

You say you don’t choose sides because you’re stubborn and it makes you uncomfortable, but you being on good speaking terms with someone who felt so comfortable disrespecting me makes me uncomfortable.

The thing is, you do choose sides.

You just don’t choose mine.

[sleepin]

via weheartit

[inkskinned]

All the urban legends came true at once.

Of course, I was six pages deep in a tax audit at the time. Chewing a pen when a rash of mothers with broken backs were rushed to the hospital, courteousy of uncareful feet smashing on cracks. Doctors, unsure at the time, blamed osteoporosis.

It was watched pots that remained cool. Or salt thrown over a shoulder that - for a second - showed a devil’s eye. Or it was the alligators. Don’t get me started on the alligators.

But something was the first whisper of what we’d woken up. Nobody wanted to say it out loud, because it sounded so ridiculous. It was a secret that swelled in our cheeks. Phrases we had always said that went silent.

All the hauntings came true. We had photograpic evidence of spirits. That’s probably what started the mass hysteria.

Some things took longer. Rubbing a statue for luck or breaking a mirror. Delayed response. One bad day turns into a bad month. Then you’re at the local witch place begging for a respite - seven years of bad luck?! - and she’s shaking her head. Nothing to be done.

Oh, the witches. The funny thing is that when people have always called you a witch, they’re surprisingly needy when you turn out to be one. When the world shifted, little towns who avoided one woman for her witchiness were now flocking to her because their legend had made her become one.

Pens mightier than swords. Avoiding groups of certain numbers. When a knife drops, we all hold our breath for the fight. A fork means company will show up, confused how they arrived.

It got better for a moment, for a breath, while we figured out the rules of it. What was a legend and what was myth. What kind of faith was big enough and what was too big. Some legends only effected certain areas. Some only certain people. We sunk money into infrastructure for once to clear up cracks. Stepped over salt in every building. Sold amulets like trinkets. For a second, we almost got our feet under us.

And then it got worse. Sometimes the company you invited was strange, unhuman. You had to wear iron. We had loved our cryptids until they came down from the mountains, worse than we could have predicted. Bowls of milk were on every window sill but most of them rotted.

In the books, we had all read about the end of the old ones. The unspeakable ones, who went off into the hills one day. Who we cannot say the name of. Who did not exist in the land of buses or planes. Who can steal you if they know your name, who can never lie but do a good job of it anyway.

We were not ready. The Folk showed up through the thin veil, and they were already laughing.

And they were just the beginning.