Being sensitive is a strength—it means you feel deeply. But unkindness? That’s a choice, and a sad one.
KIROKAZE
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Alisa U Zemlji Chuda
he wasn't even looking at me and he found me

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★
styofa doing anything

Discoholic 🪩

Product Placement
PUT YOUR BEARD IN MY MOUTH

Origami Around
let's talk about Bridgerton tea, my ask is open
Sade Olutola
DEAR READER
wallacepolsom
taylor price
Cosimo Galluzzi
cherry valley forever

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@poets-archive
Being sensitive is a strength—it means you feel deeply. But unkindness? That’s a choice, and a sad one.
Being on Tumblr at 27 feels like slipping into an old hoodie you forgot you owned—still soft, still familiar, but smelling just a little off, like time left its fingerprints all over it. I scroll past teenagers crying about things I once thought would end me, and I feel this deep, infuriating nostalgia for the days when my biggest problem was whether I should reblog another sad poem about loneliness or just stew in my own misery like a proper little tragic protagonist. Now I’m married, paying bills, making grocery lists, and pretending I have my shit together while some 17-year-old on my dash is losing their mind over a breakup they’ll barely remember in five years. And I get so fucking mad because I *remember* being them. I remember thinking life couldn’t possibly get harder, that I was drowning, and somehow, despite all of it, I still had the time and energy to romanticize the pain. What I wouldn’t give to go back to the simple agony of it all, back when my suffering felt poetic instead of exhausting. When I could just scroll and scroll, and every post felt like someone reaching out through the void to say, *yeah, I get it.* Now? Now I get it too much, and it fucking sucks.
Sorry mom,
I'm sorry, I'm a failure.
A good dog always finds its way back home
Clarice Lispector A Hora da Estrela / Heather Havrilesky Ask Polly: Help, I'm The Loneliest Person In The World / Sarah J Maas Heir of Fire / Louise Glück Timor Mortis / Molly McCully Brown Falling Down / Mitski Cop Car / Yves Olade Belovéd
(All photos from pinterest)
it’s just the traumatized oldest daughter in me
oh real and fictional older sisters, you'll always be tragic.
Lansing, MI
10/24/25
"Sonder" — noun. the realization that each random passerby is living a life as vivid and complex as your own.
A part of me is missing
the beauty of life
- // @fairycosmos // ? // - // @cassidyshotchocolate // - // - // elsie de wolfe// @podencos // afternoon on a hill, edna st. vincent millay// rien ne va plus, margarita karapanou, tr. by karen emmerich// - // - // @ annalauraart on instagram// culpable, joy sullivan// - // @ jordanklancaster on instagram// @ niall.breen.comics on instagram// agatha christie// @plasticlove1984 //sweeter than fiction, taylor swift// the summer day, mary oliver
It's late, and I'm in the kitchen for a glass of water. For just a second, I thought I smelled something like sawdust.
It reminded me of sweeping up my grandpa's work desk while he fiddled with his tools. I can smell the little pellets of dirt he germinated in the basement before planting them in the garden. Tomatoes and peppers.
Yellow tomatoes.
Sometimes I think I'm doing okay, and then I remember something so simple, something at the time I didn't think anything of.
I'd do a lot of things to be cleaning up his workshop and eat tomato sandwiches with him.