Being sensitive is a strength—it means you feel deeply. But unkindness? That’s a choice, and a sad one.
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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.