#old cheese

[blackforrestpunk]

Today's meeting was destroyed by "Moment Killer Number 01" Aiiiiiiiden.

And now it's your turn.

What do you need for a really nice day? A perfect day, basically, hahahah.

[wtfsnk]

Connie: What kind of chips is that?

Sasha: Oh, it’s just old cheese from the  minigrill.

Connie: (I_I)

[maggiemaydraw]

312/365/2019. Old Cheese. Collage.

[blackforrestpunk]

[blackforrestpunk]

old cheese

as always, my body is against me. as always, my body reminds me that my body doesn't belong to me. I belong to my body.

[blackforrestpunk]

I'm feeling weepy again. A week's vacation just isn't enough. Especially not when my chronic pain flared up for four days. I'm so tired...

[blackforrestpunk]

If you want me to call you that, you are restricting my freedom!

It started with that sentence.

It always starts with that.

A request. A need. A wish.

It is not visible. Not recognized.

It is what it is.

Uncomfortable.

Still does not fit the image you have of me.

Even if you know me.

I can't be angry with you... I feel the same way.

Sometimes I stand in front of the mirror and something inside me breaks before I even know why.

The face staring back belongs to me and yet it doesn’t.

It carries shapes, I never chose, answers to questions, I was never really asked.

But labled.

My inside knows a different truth, soft and vulnerable, one that finds no place on the surface.

Between skin and soul there is a quiet a silent fracture.

There are days when I function.

Days when I pretend, this mismatch is just a phase, not a constant feeling.

When false labels are like dull needles noticeable, but bearable.

And then there are the other days.

Days when my body howls loud and my inside falls silent.

When every glance is a reminder that I am not being seen, only sorted.

Wrong sorted.

Words fall on me like cold dust.

They are not meant for me, and yet they still land.

And I collect them all, even though I never asked for them.

Being me feels, on some days, like being stuck betweenbreaths.

Not here,

not there,

only in between and no one is waiting for me there.

I grieve an image of myself that is not yet allowed to exist.

I grieve a harmony that would feel like coming home.

And sometimes I am so tired of explaining, of enduring, of hoping, that I can barely hold myself.

But I am still... real.

Even when I hardly recognize myself in this stupid mirror.

Even when it hurts that I could break.

I am still here.

Quiet.

[girlzoot]

“Maybe if you fixed your attitude and took a bath once in a while, women would talk to you. You smell like old cheese and a mother’s regret.” —Kimberly Lemming/That Time I Got Drunk and Yeeted a Love Potion at a Werewolf