🌼🍂🥮🫖☕🥮🍂🌼

What if a horse was a brick?

[sparrowsrain]

My name is Sparrow J. Challender :)

I use they/them and sometimes he/him!

Im a fictive in the VHSystem

DNI: Endogenic, transmeds, ableist against systems, other assorted bigots

If youre gonna be mean to me Ill block you :(

My header: 🌼🍂🌼🍂🌼🍂

My icon: 🍂🌼🍂🌼🍂🌼

Dividers used:

🍂🍂 • 🍂🌰🍂 • 🟠🟠 • 🌼🌼 • 🌼🌼 • 🍂🕯️🍂

↑ Click the links! :)

[bananaeatstape]

not very new hyperfixation rediscovered write a poem abt it

[fran4flan]

Oh wow! This poem is great! I love that it can be read in 3 different ways: the body inhabited by the two personalities, and the versions of both personalities. It’s so clever and it must have been quite hard to put together. I’m moved!

[metamorphesque]

musings on april

Sylvia Plath (Leon Dabo), Edna St. Vincent Millay, E. E. Cummings, Naguib Mahfouz (Edgar Degas), E. E. Cummings (Édouard Manet), Rabindranath Tagore, T. S. Eliot (Edgar Degas), F. Scott Fitzgerald (Alphonse Osbert)

[unefemmedamnee-deactivated20250]

[swantonbomb]

lesbian masculinity is literally one of the hottest and most attractive things in the world sorry.

[danielpowell]

Cleanse - Joywave Album Stimboard

🌃 l 🌃 l 🌃

🎶 l 🎶 l 🎶

🌌 l 🌌 l 🌌

[ohjessmarie]

laundry day 🧺 | prints here

[artimaking]

･ ｡

🍂∴｡　*

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･ *ﾟ｡　　 *

･ ﾟ *｡･ﾟ🍁｡

🍂･｡°*. ﾟ

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ﾟ *.｡🍃｡🌼･

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* 🍂 ･ﾟ ｡* ｡

･　ﾟ💫 ｡

a 3600 x 4500 px oc commission, i illustrated for the sweet and lovely! @/Lackyducks 🫶 ࣪˖ ִֶָ

[autumncozy]

Autumn Rain by Sruthy Anu

[autumn-dreamin]

🍁autumn-dreamin🍁

[fleur-aesthetic]

instagram | inbloomflowerfarm

[scorpions-stinger]

@sparrowsrain

[possumnest]

day 11 - mauritius kestrel

[playstation-lichenthrope]

@sparrowsrain

[ebayandme]

[playstation-lichenthrope]

@playerchallender

[doodlingleluke]

It`s fallllllllll

[arinewman7]

Untitled

Keith Haring

felt pen on leaf

[ovaruling]

consider. the round little cheeks of a mourning dove

[cirkinkadininutopyasi]

[androgynealienfemme]

"We go from store to store, trying to things on and inspecting them. I give my opinions on dresses and shoes, blouses and lipstick colors. Sometimes I say things that make the other women look at me, agape, as though my mouth has been possessed by that flighty queen from Queer Eye even while the rest of my body still looks like any other big dumb boy's. I say that I like a skirt but I wish it were bias-cut instead of A-line, or that I am not fond of the fashion for surplice tops, or that the post-WWII idiom in shoes this season is amusing but rarely looks good on actual feet, or that I like the look of a bolero jacket. I know the names of colors, heliotrope and coral and Nile blue, and I can say without hesitation whether a lipstick might look better matte with a bit of powder.

These other women look at me with wonder, their boyfriends and husbands having made a fetish out of refusing to learn such words under any circumstances, as though merely pronouncing the word "periwinkle" or "princess seam" could easily turn a strong man gay as a box of birds. They say to her, "That's your husband?" in voices that loiter between admiring and disgusted, as though they know that there's no force on earth that could make their men or boys take such interest in their clothing and they think they might really prefer that to the spectacle of me, filling an armchair, legs crossed ankle over knee, looking just right until I say "tea length."

The point is that she wants other girls to see what it looks like to have a boy so cracy in love with you, as I am, that he will spend an afternoon talking about capri pants to have a boy so delighted by you that he never calls you by your name, but addresses you always as "beautiful girl," or "my love" or occasionally and with great fondness, "boss." To have a boy who will happily fetch your next-size-down and carry your bags and charm the salesclerks at the register without flirting overmuch and just generally try to make himself as useful as possible, all for the dizzy and undying pleasure of making you happy. And even though I am not a boy, I look like one, and so I can be complicit with her in this kind of wonderful afternoon, part indulgence of her great beauty and style, part guerilla feminist activism.

Later, when we walk through the mall or down the sidewalk, me laden with packages that are clearly hers, I watch the eyes of the people we pass: the women who look at me with a certain longing, wishing they had their own boys to carry the bags. The men who look at her with an unmistakable hunger, wishing that they had the honor of schlepping for a girl like her, and then look at me with a certain edge of disbelief, not quite clear about why I get to squire this marvelous example of femininity around when they are clearly wealthier, more handsome, better hung. I have learned to meet all of these gazes with a calm kind of sweetness. There's no point in defensiveness or sheepishness or challenge. I'm the one holding her bags."

"Being a Shopping Switch” Butch is a Noun essays by S. Bear Bergman (2006)