Sep 17, 2023
a polaroid can’t do you justice you’re canon-camera pretty, baby
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a polaroid can’t do you justice you’re canon-camera pretty, baby
Remembering the time back in 2016 when I found some custom sprite sets and portraits via FFT Romhacking sites, then DIY-ed them into a rompatch to implement the Blue Mage class plus an overpowered Heretic job for Chapter 4 Ramza (somebody’s gotta learn Divine Ultima and Meltdown, right?). I just wish I hadn’t kept all of it on an external HD prone to random (permanent) brain freezes before figuring out how to cloud.
my hands are cold. i need a pretty girl to hold them
:(
being a lesbian is such an intrinsic part of who i am that words almost cannot begin to describe how i feel. coming to this realization was so liberating but so terrifying at the same time; to have to forget everything i’ve been taught about myself and abandon the things i’ve been told i want feels impossible sometimes. but i was able to do it. and i’m proud of myself for that.
my lesbianism is a part of my gender identity. being a femme is part of my gender identity. when i ask myself what i am, how i identify, i draw blanks. i don’t have a name for it but i have feelings. i feel in my very core that i am a lesbian, just as people are agender or genderfluid or trans or cis, but it isn’t what i want to call myself as it is only where my feelings stem from and not the full picture. i am feminine without being female. i am not a woman, but i find comfort in womanhood through being femme.
when i say i am a lesbian, i mean that it is the entirety of my being. this one word represents so much of who i am- it is deeper than personality, it is deeper than gender, it is deeper than sexuality. my personhood is defined by my lesbianism. and that discovery, that realization, that moment of clarity, is one of the most beautiful and cherished memories i have.
How to Get Over a Breakup: 101
Things don't always end pretty, wrapped in delicate ribbon and tied with a bow. Sometimes, things end ugly with weeping and wailing and gnashing of teeth. They end with claws and jagged rips in floral wallpaper, torn from ceiling to floor. They end with deafening screams that tear their way through throats and leave bloody, aching scraps in their wake.
Sometimes, they only end that way inside. Speaking is easy once the first part is forced out- getting everything back in is a struggle in its own right. The most painful tears are the ones held back when they are not the result of hurt and instead are the cause.
You stand, with your back against the sturdiest thing in sight, with your feet planted firmly and your arms over your chest, with your head tilted to the sky so that crying never comes. You are not the victim. You have instead made someone your victim. You do not deserve to mourn what you are destroying.
You get in your car and you sob. You sob before and after and beg those around you to make it stop. You beg God or whoever is out there that you are allowed to go back in time. You pray that this will all go away. You pray that this never happened in the first place.
It was the humane thing to do. The longer you wait, the more it will hurt. Explaining that you don't want to do this, that you wish you didn't have to, will never be understood. When dusk comes, it still happened by your hand. Your heavy, horrid hand.
But life has to go on. When asked, you say that it has. You say that you have to keep moving. You have to press forward and never look back. Life goes on for everyone but you. It's a race to keep up that you eventually find out you're losing. You're stuck in a past you are miserable in.
Nothing will ever be the same. You will never be the same. How much pain have you dealt if this is what the dealing feels like?
The blood in your veins is unspilled. Blood in the body can still bruise. You poke at it and prod at it and wonder when purple will fade to yellow, when the pain will cease to be so sharp, when the healing will begin. No one has bruised you but yourself. You are the source of your wounds.
Be brave. Pick yourself up. Dust yourself off. Keep your back straight as best you can and hide how you limp. You are hiding nothing. The whole world knows. Save for you.
chasing a ghost but the ghost is music. the ghost is how music notes rattle around in my brain, how lyrics swirl like leaves in the wind, how i can hear what it sounds like before it ever leaves my mouth. there is no ache like the ache of a trapped artist. like a songbird in a cage, i sing and sing and sing but only for those who ask. music makes me feel free and tied down at the same time.
if i think too hard about how i can't play the guitar, i'll start crying.
it's all "what is the point?" until it's light at 6 pm again and then it's "what is the point?" except brighter outside.
i promise i’ll do better for you, i promise i’ll be better for you-
oh. you don’t want me anymore? that’s fine
who am i to be better for now? maybe it’s easier if i just get worse. let me ruin my life please. it’s not your fault, i’m wired for failure. go live on without me it will be best for both of us