#ragatha coded

[dzzydream3r]

when my moms being homophobic and grounds me for wanting to be with my girlfriend but i'm lowkey repressed ragatha in front of a rainbow sad image .png so i'm fine

[myobsessions247]

The next character of that weirdcore world (I wanna figure out a better name but for now it’ll be that) Meet Pin Cushion! A little Ragatha (tadc) coded, she’s the mom friend, she’s the kind of person who ignores her own problems to help others. She’s a voodoo doll, not too obvious, she’s just inspired by one.

Speed paint ⬇️

[dzzydream3r]

happy mother's day!!!!!

love,

your dyke fuckass fat slutty fag loser lonely lazy whore daughter <3

[noodlydoodlydoo]

A Note For You Whom Will Never Read It

You leave for a week.

Seven days.

A number so ordinary

it almost feels embarrassing

to admit

how frightened I am of it.

People wait longer

for vacations,

for birthdays,

for packages in the mail.

So why does my chest

react like it’s counting down

to something

it won’t survive?

You asked for space.

You told me why.

You were honest.

You didn’t disappear.

You didn’t lie.

You didn’t make me guess.

You did everything right.

So why does it still hurt

like I’ve been abandoned?

I think there’s something broken

in the way I love people.

Not because I love too much,

but because I love

like every goodbye

is permanent.

Like every unanswered text

is a confession.

Like every pause

is someone quietly deciding

they’ve had enough of me.

I know better.

At least,

the logical part of me does.

It reminds me

that you said

you’d be back.

That you love me.

That you just need time

to breathe.

It speaks so softly.

Fear

has always been louder.

Fear doesn’t listen

when people explain themselves.

It takes the kindest words

and translates them

into something cruel.

“I need a week.”

Becomes,

“I’m happier without you.”

“I’m overwhelmed.”

Becomes,

“You’re too much.”

“I love you.”

Becomes,

“For now.”

And somehow,

no matter how many times

I’m reassured,

my heart keeps asking

the same impossible question.

“But what if this time

they mean something else?”

I’ve spent so long

trying not to be difficult.

Trying not to ask

for too much reassurance.

Trying not to tell you

how terrified I get

when I can’t hear from you.

Because I don’t want

to become another weight

you’re forced to carry.

So I swallow it.

Again.

And again.

And again.

Until my feelings

stop feeling

like feelings.

They become weather.

Constant.

Heavy.

Always hanging over me,

waiting for the smallest thing

to break open.

Sometimes I wonder

if I’ve become

inconsolable.

Not because nobody

tries to comfort me,

but because I’ve forgotten

how to let comfort

reach me.

You could wrap me

in every promise

you’ve ever made.

You could tell me

you’ll never leave.

You could hold me

until morning.

And I’d still go home

wondering

if I imagined it.

Wondering

whether you were only

being kind.

Wondering

how long it’ll be

before kindness

gets tired.

I wish my heart understood

that love

isn’t measured

by constant closeness.

That someone

can need distance

without wanting

to disappear.

That silence

doesn’t always mean

absence.

But I’ve spent so much

of my life

waiting for people

to leave

that I’ve started mourning them

before they’ve even gone.

And maybe

that’s the cruelest part.

You haven’t left me.

Not even close.

You’re just taking

a week

to breathe.

Yet here I am,

already grieving

a future

that hasn’t happened.