i’m tired. but not just “didn’t sleep” tired. soul tired. bone tired. like my body keeps going but nothing inside knows why.
Me, after another night of drafting, editing, writing, editing, editing again, some more editing
nevermind *deletes the whole thing*
“You hold flaws so beautiful, even perfection aches with envy.
No. It aches with desire.
A sickening, damning desire,
That secretly slips to the soles of your feet to devour you whole.”
—— by CarpeVenus (@songs-of-venus)
the comfort i find in the rain is kinda unreal
•🌧️🩶•
I would rather die in your arms than live a thousand years alone.
Sylvia Plath, aged 30, in a letter to Olive Higgins Prouty, her mentor & benefactress, 4 months after discovering her husband's infidelity, and their subsequent separation (dated Tuesday, 20 November 1962)
I can make no sense of the water inside me
𝚍𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚎𝚍𝚐𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚘𝚗𝚋𝚘𝚘𝚔𝚜, 𝚋𝚛𝚘𝚔𝚎𝚗 𝚐𝚒𝚛𝚕𝚜, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚛𝚘𝚖𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚌 𝚛𝚞𝚒𝚗𝚜
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