rottenmilk

they/them all kinds of art and all kinds of crazy

[noharmdonefornow]

I'm crying at work I never cry but of course the one time I'm crying it's when I don't need to cry I can't cry

[noharmdonefornow]

high-key nobody knows how close I am to the ledge

[noharmdonefornow]

holy shit can there just be like one person who cares about me? why is everything surface level. nobody interacts with me other than my coworkers and I wonder if this is all I'll ever be. just some NPC that has dreams but ends up in an office. if I died I wonder if anyone would find my body in my cubicle

[noharmdonefornow]

just found out that a foreshortened future is a symptom of PTSD who was gonna tell me

[buttonpoetry]

MY MOM REMINDS ME THAT WE ALL HAVE OUR SHIT by L.E. Bowman , from their book Shapeshifter.

[letsbelonelytogetherr]

— Emily Henry; People we meet on vacation

[buttonpoetry]

A Haunting, Ending in Its Own Erasure by Meg Ford , from their book WILD/HURT.

[buttonpoetry]

Rasp by @neilhilborn , from their book About Time.

[ether--net]

[unfxded]

⠀

[inkzbat]

Things I'm good at :

• ??????????

• ???????

•????

• ???????

• feeling like a burden and bed rotting

[bpderanged]

I'm sick of celebrating small victories. I don't want to feel proud just for getting out of bed, brushing my teeth, going for a walk, or surviving another day.

They told me that these small wins are the foundation for something greater, but I've been at it for years and I'm getting impatient. When will it be my turn? Were they just lying to keep me going, knowing deep down I'd never truly get better?

Because I, too, want to experience big victories that feel significant, instead of constantly applauding myself for the bare minimum.

[hag6]

just found a blog i kept when i was 15 that was a catalog of every single time i cried. no details, just a post noting that i was crying. and I’ll say, years later, when bot-ran blogs and other social media pages that are run by bots are really thriving, there’s some sort of eerie echo of the future in this blog that consists only of post after post that simply reads “i’m crying”

[howifeltabouthim]

But I had not shared how tired I was of myself, the inordinate effort it took to dress, eat, engage. My friends had become adults, people who lived alone and took themselves to lectures and parties. I had become somebody who needed medication to leave my bedroom.

Abigail Dean, from The Death of Us

[paper-wounds]

[noharmdonefornow]

damn I high-key don't matter

[noharmdonefornow]

if you expect to find people who will understand you, you will grow murderous with disappointment

[ashstfu]

i don’t think people understand how much of life is grief. not just people dying, but losing the version of yourself you thought you’d become. grieving the city you had to leave. the friends you lost not in argument, but in silence. the summer that will never come back. the feeling that maybe you peaked at 12 when you were reading books under the covers and believing in forever