✿Still, She Blooms✿

Иногда быть — это самое смелое.✨️

[stillsheblooms]

✧ 28 | she/her | Russian & still romantic about everything ✧

I made this blog for my sanity.

Sometimes I will post poetry. Sometimes I will post memes.

Sometimes I will post like I’m the main character of a film no one is watching.

I love music in the dark, books with sad girls, and people who laugh like they mean it.

pan. anxious. extremely sensitive to everything except volume settings.

if you’re soft, weird, lost, in love, neurodivergent, an ally, a bookworm, or just passing through–

Hi. I already like you.

Life can be hard. Let's make life a little bit easier for each other, and BE KIND.

✿☁︎ still, she blooms ☁︎✿

✧ 28 | она/её | русская и всё ещё романтичная во всём ✧

Я создала этот блог ради собственного спокойствия.

Иногда буду выкладывать поэзию. Иногда — мемы.

Иногда — будто я главная героиня фильма, который никто не смотрит. 🎬

Я люблю музыку в темноте, книги с грустными девочками и людей, которые смеются по-настоящему.

пэн. тревожная. гиперчувствительная ко всему, кроме уровня громкости.

если ты нежная, странная, потерянная, влюблённая, нейроотличная, союзница, книжный червь или просто проходишь мимо —

Привет. Ты мне уже нравишься.

Жизнь бывает трудной. Давай сделаем её чуть легче друг для друга и БУДЕМ ДОБРЫ. ✨️

✿☁︎ и всё же она цветёт ☁︎✿

[stillsheblooms]

autumn blues

poem by @stillsheblooms

I didn’t know how much I missed it—

your blue eyes,

the way they held a whole summer in them

like the sky above the city streets

where we walked every day in ninety-degree heat,

our shadows sticking to the asphalt,

your laugh bouncing off the sun-baked walls.

And then Autumn came.

All the blue disappeared.

The skies, the flowers,

The ocean of July in your eyes–

gone.

Now all I know is the blue in my chest.

The ache that spreads from my ribs

to my fingertips,

to the ghost of the sweater you wore in Paris

the one that brushed my nightgown

before we had to leave

because room service had woken us

and we were too sleep deprived

and hungover to hear the alarm.

Of course your cologne is blue.

I still keep the nightgown in the travel bag I took to Paris,

just in case you call me.

I kept your cologne,

that slipped into my bag when no one was looking,

that cold morning we had to rush out,

after staying up all night

laughing, whispering,

touching the edges of each other.

I still can’t bear to smell it.

[stillsheblooms]

Ocean In His Eyes

Poem by @stillsheblooms

you weren’t mine,

just a shadow passing through the frame–

but my pulse remembers

the way your eyes carried

a whole ocean

and a whole storm

at the same time.

most will read this

and think it’s about a stranger.

they’ll never guess the face

they’ve seen a thousand times–

the man they all crowned

without touching the thorns.

[nixscriptum]

I never had to forgive the unforgivable. Because I never gave my heart to someone who’d ask that of me.

[stillsheblooms]

the first time i wore a backless dress, i didn't die.

no one pulled me aside and whispered

you’re embarrassing yourself.

no old women furrowed their eyebrows

or scoffed at me.

no one spat at my feet.

i just walked into the bar.

and someone smiled.

and someone else said,

you look beautiful.

and for the first time,

i believed it.

i ordered a drink with vodka in it.

a beluga gold line cosmopolitan,

in a fancy coupe glass.

i always stuck to juice or sweet wine

at family dinners back home–

anything else would have raised eyebrows.

my dad told me many times it wasn't ladylike for me to drink such hard drinks.

but after tasting that drink,

the tart cranberry,

and tasting new york city–

my body felt hot–

in more than one way.

from that moment on,

i didn't care about what my neighbors back home in that awful town would say.

🍹

впервые я надела платье с открытой спиной, я не умерла.

никто не подошёл и не прошептал, что я позорюсь.

ни одна старая женщина не нахмурила брови и не насмехалась надо мной.

никто не плюнул мне под ноги.

я просто зашла в бар.

и кто-то улыбнулся.

и кто-то другой сказал,

ты выглядишь красиво.

и впервые я в это поверила.

я заказала напиток с водкой.

белуга голд лайн космополитен,

в красивом бокале купе.

я всегда пила только сок или сладкое вино на семейных ужинах дома —

всё остальное вызвало бы неодобрение.

папа много раз говорил мне, что пить крепкие напитки — это не по-женски.

но после того, как я попробовала этот напиток,

кислую клюкву,

и попробовала нью-йорк —

моё тело разгорелось —

более чем в одном смысле.

с того момента

мне было всё равно, что скажут мои соседи дома в том ужасном городке.

🍹

[stillsheblooms]

What were you wearing?

do you mean when I saw Drew?

i don't think i took any photos that night but

i think it was the studded corslet & the Kane hot pants from R&M leathers with fishnets, with ALLSAINTS over the knee leather boots, and thrifted leather jacket i ended up losing at some point that night 😆 i was actually "blacked out" haha

[stillsheblooms]

“you okay? that's your third drink in 5 minutes”

yeah. just thinking about that time in nyc when drew starkey came into the bar with his sister, talked to me for like 3 minutes before i realized who he was, then later he caught me heading to the bathroom and he said i reminded him of a young drew barrymore + he liked my outfit😭

i had a full panic attack in the bathroom stall, later blacked out after drinking myself into oblivion, and had to be dragged back to my friend’s apartment because i don't remember anything else from that night😆

true story + i have since realized why everyone loves him 😵‍💫 + why i don't think i will ever only like girls because guys like him exist

(this was forever ago but i still think about it and ugh i hate that i acted like an idiot)

[nixscriptum]

[stillsheblooms]

city slutcore, 2025

i swear i’m not trying to fall in love,

but i keep locking eyes with strangers like it means something.

leo grabbed my ass in the bar and i’ve been thinking about marrying him ever since.

mila kissed my wrist at a rooftop party month ago and now i’m writing poems like we dated.

i cried in the back of a lyft because nico said “you’re different” and i believed them.

i go out for drinks and come home with new soul ties.

i kiss girls who wear sunglasses to clubs and do coke in the bathroom and tell me they’re not looking for anything serious.

i make out with boys who say they’re emotionally unavailable and then text them “did you mean it?”

i romanticize the way people leave me.

i call it fate when i see them again at the same bar a week later.

new york is loud and hot and mean,

and i’m soft and wet and always two drinks away from saying “i love you.”

but it’s 2025, and everyone’s unwell.

at least i’m poetic about it.

[stillsheblooms]

being pan is a goddamn curse.

i see a girl with chipped black nail polish and torn fishnets and suddenly i’m fantasizing about her riding my face while her ex-boyfriend begs to join.

i want to be choked by someone i barely know while their flatmate films it and calls it performance art.

i want the girl who reads anne carson in the book store– and annotates in red pen– to spit in my mouth.

i want the boy who calls himself a feminist but ruins me anyway.

i want the couple fighting in the corner of the party to make me their 'solution'.

i want sex that feels like a nervous breakdown. and poetry that stains the sheets just like the sex does.

i want too much and i want it all at once.

my therapist probably thinks i’m unwell when she reads my poems because i write about everyone i’ve ever fucked or almost fucked or wanted to fuck but didn’t. it’s not even about sex half the time. it’s about needing to be seen. it’s about wanting someone to look at me like they know. and when they don’t, i make art about it so i can pretend they did.

and it's 2025– i'll fuck whoever i want.

[the-inspiring-quotes]

[stillsheblooms]

✧ 28 | she/her | Russian & still romantic about everything ✧

I made this blog for my sanity.

Sometimes I will post poetry. Sometimes I will post memes.

Sometimes I will post like I’m the main character of a film no one is watching.

I love music in the dark, books with sad girls, and people who laugh like they mean it.

pan. anxious. extremely sensitive to everything except volume settings.

if you’re soft, weird, lost, in love, neurodivergent, an ally, a bookworm, or just passing through–

Hi. I already like you.

Life can be hard. Let's make life a little bit easier for each other, and BE KIND.

✿☁︎ still, she blooms ☁︎✿

✧ 28 | она/её | русская и всё ещё романтичная во всём ✧

Я создала этот блог ради собственного спокойствия.

Иногда буду выкладывать поэзию. Иногда — мемы.

Иногда — будто я главная героиня фильма, который никто не смотрит. 🎬

Я люблю музыку в темноте, книги с грустными девочками и людей, которые смеются по-настоящему.

пэн. тревожная. гиперчувствительная ко всему, кроме уровня громкости.

если ты нежная, странная, потерянная, влюблённая, нейроотличная, союзница, книжный червь или просто проходишь мимо —

Привет. Ты мне уже нравишься.

Жизнь бывает трудной. Давай сделаем её чуть легче друг для друга и БУДЕМ ДОБРЫ. ✨️

✿☁︎ и всё же она цветёт ☁︎✿

[stillsheblooms]

Who wants to be moots?🥹💛

[stillsheblooms]

“The First One”

Poem by @stillsheblooms

i loved a boy once.

he laughed like he wasn’t sure if the world would let him.

held me like he was scared he might lose me

or lose himself.

we learned everything fast.

he was my first–

not just in the obvious ways.

he was the first person who really saw me,

the first one i let in

without a second thought.

and then

he became she.

she changed her name,

her body,

the way she showed up in the world–

but never the part i loved.

the part that held space for me

when no one else would.

and yeah, it hurt.

because losing someone you love–

even when it’s not really losing–

is still a kind of grief no one talks about.

but i never stopped loving her.

not even when the world didn’t know how to hold her.

not even when i had to hold my own heart

through the change.

we didn’t part because of that.

we just grew in different directions.

but sometimes,

late at night,

i wonder if she remembers me,

the girl who loved her

before she even knew who she was.

i saw her once.

and she was radiant,

like she finally got to be herself

without apology.

and that’s when i realized:

i wasn’t in love with a gender.

i was in love with her.

and that love didn’t fit into any box

except the one i made myself.

that’s when i found my word:

pansexual.

not because i needed a label,

but because love taught me

it’s not about gender.

it’s about the person.

and that love...

it changes shape.

it grows.

it survives.

and sometimes,

love breaks you in ways no one talks about.

and you’re just left figuring it out.

[stillsheblooms]

“The Tea Always Goes Cold”

Poem by @stillsheblooms

my grandma made bread with her hands,

wrists strong from years of flour and silence.

she ate it hot, with fresh butter.

not margarine, never margarine.

and insisted the crust was the best part.

she hung clothes out on the line

like prayer flags for a god no one remembered,

cotton and lace dancing in the wind

like they were still young, still worn

by someone who loved to be beautiful.

she used the same face cream for thirty years,

the label long worn off,

a jar that smelled like lavender and discipline.

she swore by it.

she swore by many things:

sweet milk, hard candy at 10 a.m.

silence when needed.

she let me wear red lipstick when i was eight.

kissed my forehead and told me

not to tell my mother about the sugar on my tongue,

the breakfast made of sweet strawberry candies

and rebellion.

she giggled.

i believed she was the most glamorous woman in the world.

in russia, she walked me to the farm

and let me gather rocks like treasures.

little gray miracles i lined up on the nightstand

as if they could protect me from growing up.

she always made tea. every meal.

and i was too busy playing,

so i always let it go cold.

i didn’t know

the tea would stop one day.

that the kitchen would go quiet,

that the towel she always wore over her shoulder

would hang, unmoving.

now i try to make it the way she did.

same herbs, same pot, same silence.

but it never tastes right.

because she’s not here.

and grief doesn’t steep

the way she did.

🕊

[stillsheblooms]

I didn't know what to call it

the first time with a man,

i pretended i was older.

i let him press his mouth to mine

like it was something he’d earned–

like my body was a lock

and his hands were the key

he found under a stranger’s mat.

i said yes like i was reading from a script.

i smiled so he wouldn’t ask

what i was thinking

when i stared at the ceiling

and let him call it love.

but with her–

god.

with her it was thunder in a chapel.

wine spilled on white linen.

her name caught in my throat

like a song i didn’t know i knew.

she touched me like she’d been waiting

for centuries.

and i let her.

because i wanted to know

what it felt like

to be the altar, not the offering.

i didn’t know what to call it.

i still don’t.

but i kept her earrings

and burned the sheets.

[stillsheblooms]

the letter i never sent

i started with “dear,” and stopped at “love,”

then burned the page and looked above.

the stars don’t care, and the moon won’t say

why girls like you don’t ever stay.

still, every month i try again,

a new regret, a different pen.

but every draft still ends the same:

just “please come home,” beneath her name.

[stillsheblooms]

drinking earl grey in my linen slip dress,

glaring at the sea like it's the one that got away.

i haven’t spoken to a man in 37 days. life is good.