come here i need to tell you a secret we have to whisper because it is gross. i want to be loved so softly. i want to be held. i want to be cherished. i want to be admired and adored.
“When I’d first loved him, I wanted to take him apart, as a child dismembers a clockwork toy, to comprehend the inscrutable mechanics of its interior. I wanted to see him far more naked than he was with his clothes off.”
subtle intimacy is so soft. knowing someone’s routine and slowly becoming a part of it. memorising favourite teas and soups and drink orders. good morning and good night texts and messy paragraphs of love written half asleep. nicknames only you know. just small things that say “look how dear you are to me.”
Ppl will be like “end the stigma around mental illness uwu” but still judge you if you’re unemployed or single or not completely self-sufficient or healthy or perfectly groomed or still live with parents and don’t see the hypocrisy in that whatsoever
every day i get my heart ripped out & every day i simply just continue
so much unprocessed grief so little human contact something more happens something awful or sad & you think you don’t even have any room left to ache properly you let yourself have one quick sob & u plunge your hands back into the sink & wash the dishes & the next day it’s the same. more of the same
You’re in your own world, spinning fictions and building realities and finding the poetry in ordinary things. The people around you can tell there’s something special to you, and you’re well-loved by a some very good people. But even to your closest friends, you’re a bit of a mystery. This always surprises you to hear, because you don’t mean to put walls up– you just get so caught up in things nobody else sees that you forget to let yourself be seen. You’re complicated, and sometimes you get tangled in it. Don’t worry, though, it’s not off-putting; despite your accidental air of mystery, your warmth can be seen like a campfire through distant trees.
